


Safe Word

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 68,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1558754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hundred and ninety-seven years into the Master's first attempt to reign over the universe with the Paradox Machine, more than the rules have been broken.</p><p>This fic contains extremely explicit and problematic elements. Please see the Author's Note before reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purchase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlzilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlzilla/gifts).



> Please note:  
> This fanfic is, as I may have mentioned, extremely explicit and has highly problematic elements. I am aware of this, and feel obligated to warn you. The relationships portrayed within are not healthy, or good, or something to aspire to. The acts portrayed in this fic are frequently not physically safe, and you shouldn't try them.  
> If you are triggered by physical, sexual, or emotional abuse, manipulation/brainwashing, neglect, discussion of food, enslavement, mental illness, physical illness, or graphic descriptions of violent acts and injuries, you may be triggered by this fic. There is no dubcon in this fic, purely because it is all noncon, even (and perhaps especially) the acts that seem consensual at first glance. Please take this warning seriously. I don't say it lightly.
> 
> The total word count is approximately 69,000. I will post one chapter a week; there are seventeen chapters.

The Master can look down at her, which he always likes. She’s short—five feet, five-two at the most—and slightly on the skinny side, skin like fresh cream, her blond hair, just at the cusp of being light brown, framing a frightened, beautiful face.

Mostly, though, it’s her eyes. They’re a deep, sparking green, wide and fearful as they flit around the room. They keep returning to the Voryth, an unpleasant bunch of massive, gelatinous monsters with a rather horrific reputation. Briefly, the Master is glad Ashton isn’t here; his former owners always upset him.

“Have your eye on anyone?” Lucy asks, moving a little closer to stand beside him.

The Master grins, nodding toward the short girl. “What do you think? Good, isn’t she?”

“She’s beautiful,” Lucy gasps.

“Shall we go and have a look?”

They pass rows of slaves for auction and join the crowd around the short girl. Some of the less patient among them reach for her, laughing when she shies away, tugging on her chains in an attempt to pull her closer. The Master has the Toclafane clear a path so that he and Lucy can come closer, examining the Plexiglas case in front of the girl that contains her information.

“B/apple-207, her auction number,” her seller (something humanoid and blue) says eagerly; he’s got an eye for important people, it would seem, and the Master tends to give off that vibe. “Her former owners starved her, but she’ll fill out nicely. Otherwise, perfectly healthy. Her auction is coming up in just a few minutes, if you’re interested. We’re starting her at just one hundred credits.” This last spawns a storm of murmuring and chatter from the crowd.

“Is she trained?” Lucy asks, looking her up and down appreciatively.

“Modestly. She responds well to force.” (That’s code for _no, not trained at all_.)

The Master gives her a quick up-and-down with his screwdriver; besides being underweight and a slight case of malnutrition, she’s healthy. Also, apparently, cold—this close, he can see the points of her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress. He smirks at the sight. “Can I buy her straight out?”

“Why, yes,” the seller says, sounding surprised. “Fifteen hundred credits is the asking price.”

“I’ll need a private showing before I purchase her,” the Master says.

“Yes, of course. Er, now?”

“Is there any other time?” Lucy chuckles, bouncing on her heels. She’s always excited when they get new slaves, ever since the Master started letting her train them.

The seller leads them, the girl still in her chains, to a small door in the back wall, then down a hallway to an open room. He closes the door so they won’t be disturbed, the Toclafane hovering in the corners. The Master leans against the wall and lets Lucy inspect the girl. She’s terrified. She pulls away from Lucy at every slight motion, her every movement speaking to years of mistreatment and abuse. Those green eyes of hers jump between Lucy, her seller, the Toclafane, and the Master for a while, but when Lucy lifts up the hem of her dress, the girl cowers, squeezing her eyes shut and visibly shaking. When Lucy tells her to spread her legs, she refuses. The blue man selling her tugs on her chains, then strides up and strikes her with a small baton. It’s electrified, and she yelps in pain as a visible spark jumps across her skin. After a moment, she spreads her legs. Her shaking is worse.

“Thank you,” Lucy murmurs. By the time she finishes looking the girl over, she’s beaming, and her verdict is a sigh of, “She’s wonderful.”

The Master grins and approaches her. She’s naked now, her dress tangled up around her chains, plainly terrified. He fondles one small, soft breast, then says quietly, “Look at me. I want to see those eyes of yours.”

She looks up, but doesn’t meet his eyes. That won’t do. He cups her chin in his hand, tilts her head back, and that does the trick; their eyes meet, and he goes for a visit inside her mind.

“Emma,” he says. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.” Her eyes widen, and a panicked thought flits across her mind— _my name, how did he know, I tell no one my name—_ and he chuckles. “You’re frightened, but you needn’t be. Do you know who I am, Emma?” She shakes her head, unable to tear her gaze from his. “My name is the Master.” He smiles. “I’ve come to take you home.”

 

The Doctor keeps looking at the door. It’s probably annoying the others, but he doesn’t care. The Master and Lucy have been gone for a long time, and he always gets nervous when they’re out.

He looks back down at his plate and tears off a little piece of bread, chewing it as he looks back at the door, which taunts him by remaining firmly closed. There’s really no need to stare; the hydraulic bolts make plenty of noise when they open, so he’ll hear them when they arrive.

“I’m sure they’ll say hello,” says a soft voice from around his elbow. The Doctor glances down and smiles at Ashton, who’s on his knees next to the Doctor’s chair, looking up at him, his pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I can’t wait,” the Doctor replies.

“For what? They won’t allow the new girl anywhere near _you_ for awhile,” Lucian says, and there’s something smug in his grin. “You’re the Master’s favorite, after all. He’d never take the risk, you know, in case she turns out to be some psycho bitch.” He’s the tall, dark, and handsome type, almost-black hair curling over his ears, indigo eyes set in a wide, handsome face. As he’s the strongest of the Master’s personal slaves, he usually has a hand in training new purchases. Periodically, he likes to remind everyone of this, as if they’ve forgotten. The Doctor doesn’t like him very much (although he would never dare to say so aloud), but thankfully, they usually only see each other at mealtimes. He tends to behave poorly, and the Master only lets the most obedient of his harem have the pleasure of the Doctor’s more intimate company.

“Shut up, Lucian,” says Ashton from under the table.

“Don’t make me kick you, _dog_ ,” Lucian replies. “Is he even allowed at the table?”

“Lucian,” the Doctor says, his voice a warning. Technically, the Doctor “outranks” everyone left in the Master’s personal suite, but he hardly ever punishes anyone himself. He did give Lucian a smack, though, a few years ago, and Lucian has been very short-tempered with him since. “Ashton isn’t playing puppy anymore. I know it’s against your nature, but you could at least attempt to be polite.”

Lucian opens his mouth to make a furious reply, but before he can, there’s a sound like machine gun fire, and the door to the suite slides open. Lucy is holding the chain of the new girl, a tiny little blond thing, who’s eyeing the door and the rooms beyond with something like hysteria. The Doctor feels a rush of sympathy for her, remembering the day, nearly two hundred years ago, when the Master first took him in here. He smiles slightly. This place used to feel like a prison, and now it’s home. How times change.

Lucy goes in first, tugging on the chain around the new girl’s neck. She shakes her head, refuses, planting her feet. Lucy has a surprisingly difficult time with the girl, considering her diminutive stature. The Master pushes the girl over the threshold unceremoniously, then follows them inside, pulling the door shut behind him; a few Toclafane remain outside, but the others whirr and wobble to their stands and settle there for the foreseeable future. They don’t activate unless the Master is leaving the suite or is directly threatened. By the time the hydraulic bolts shoot into place once more, the Doctor has risen from the table and stands, beaming, in the foyer. His Master came back to him. He always comes back. “Master, Lucy,” he greets them, bouncing happily on his heels.

“Doctor,” the Master greets him in reply. “This is Emma. Emma, this is the Doctor. Say hello.”

“Hello, Emma,” the Doctor says cheerfully. “Lovely to meet you.” She cowers, saying nothing, looking as though she’s about to faint of terror.

“Say hello to the Doctor, Emma,” Lucy says firmly, pulling on the chain again to remind her who’s in charge.

“H-hel-hello,” Emma says, shying away from him.

“Oh, it’s all right, you don’t need to be scared of little old me,” the Doctor tells her, winking. “Or anyone, really. Just do as the Master says, you’ll be fine.” Emma makes no reply, just looks at him as though he’s just said something too utterly bizarre for words, which he supposes he has.

“How about a demonstration?” the Master chuckles. “Doctor, on your knees.”

Without the slightest hesitation, the Doctor falls to his knees; it’s painful on the marble flooring, but that’s of no consideration. At the Master’s instruction, the Doctor crawls to Emma, who by now is wearing an expression to suggest that he’s some wild beast who has come to maul her, lifts up the hem of her dress, and kisses her bare thigh. Stubble tickles his lips pleasantly before she smacks him.

He really wishes she hadn’t. It’s not so much the pain; compared to the things he and the Master get up to on a daily basis, it hardly hurts at all. But, for the next ten minutes, the foyer echoes with the sounds of her screaming and sobbing as he teaches her not to hit or touch without permission, and the Doctor’s hearts ache for her. He hates when the Master has to punish the other slaves, particularly when he has to watch, and even more so when he’s been punished for the same thing so many times himself.

At last, cowed and shaking, but quiet, she promises the Master that she’s learned her lesson, and he walks her to the dining room table, where Lucian and Ashton have been watching their little drama curiously; Ashton’s bright eyes twinkle from between a couple of chairs. “Hello, Emma,” he says. “My name is Ashton.” Emma stammers back a reply, then does the same for Lucian, who leers predatorily at her.

“Emma, why don’t you go sit next to Ashton on the floor?” Lucy says. Hesitantly, Emma does so, nervously avoiding Ashton’s gaze despite his friendly demeanor. “Hungry?” she asks. Emma nods. Lucian and Ashton watch the drama unfold as Lucy continues the new girl’s education.

“Doctor, have you finished eating?” the Master asks him.

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor replies.

“Was Ashton good?”

“Very good, Master.”

“And Lucian?” The Doctor frowns. The Master chuckles. “He’s Lucian, isn’t he? Well. And the others? Have they all behaved today?”

“Yes, Master, everyone but Lucian. He was rude again.” The Doctor says this quietly; he knows Lucian will be punished for this later, but he has to tell the Master the truth. He jumps slightly at the sound when Lucy gives Emma a smack, followed by a brief lecture on her tone.

“Who would she go well with, do you think?” the Master says speculatively, nodding in Emma’s direction. “Ashton? She knows him now, after all, and he’s more than capable of handling her.”

“True,” the Doctor replies, frowning again. “She’s so scared.”

“She wasn’t treated very well. Some people have no class.”

The Doctor suppresses a little smile at the Master’s sense of humor, then says, “She’d get along with Allison,” referring to the curvy, brown-eyed ginger girl who’s currently upstairs tidying the Master’s outer office; Allison’s always been sweet and gentle, and the Doctor gets the impression that Emma would greatly benefit from some gentleness.

“Yes, she would,” the Master agrees. “Too soft, though, maybe?”

“She seems more scared than stubborn,” the Doctor says.

The Master considers it, watching Lucy feed Emma a few grapes, a reward for good behavior. “Callum,” the Master says at last. “You think?”

The Doctor considers it; Callum’s a rather frail-looking blond boy with a slightly effeminate quality to him, which the Master occasionally takes advantage of in the form of short skirts and high heels. Like Allison, he’s a kind person by nature, but he lacks her hesitation when it comes to punishing others. The sooner Emma learns the rules, the better, so the Doctor nods and says, “Callum would do well with her.”

“Go and fetch him for me, will you?”

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor murmurs, heading for the stairs. He pauses, though, and says shyly, “Master?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“You’re back.”

The Master smiles at him. It’s the Doctor’s favorite smile—no teeth showing, a little crooked. It’s as close to fond as the Master ever gets, and the Doctor likes to think of it as _his_ , because he’s never seen the Master give it to anyone else, not even Lucy. “I always come back,” the Master tells him, and the Doctor’s hearts ache again, but this time, it’s a good ache, like he’s heard the Master make a promise he’s always wanted from him.


	2. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Emma starts to learn the rules. Dearest Doctor goes over some rules he already knows as the story begins to earn its NC17 rating...

Over the next few days, Emma learns the rules of the house; there are quite a few, but Callum has them all committed to memory, and Emma picks them up fairly quickly. She still resists at first, but on the third morning, the Doctor finishes a quick revision of a schematic, comes downstairs to breakfast, and finds her on her knees, hands cuffed behind her back, next to the Master’s chair, eating out of the palm of his gloved hand. She blushes a violent shade of red when she sees the Doctor watching her, but keeps eating.

“Good morning, Doctor,” the Master greets him.

“G’morning, Master.” He has standing permission to take three meals a day until the Master says otherwise, so he helps himself to a glass of milk and a large muffin. There are a lot of muffins in the kitchen; the Master is quite fond of them.

“Did you finish that schematic?”

“I was just revising it. It should be finished by the end of next week. I’m sorry it’s taking so long, Master.”

“That’s quite all right. Just do it properly.”

“Yes, Master.” The Doctor sits down on the Master’s right side, watching him feed Emma. When she finishes, she licks her lips a few times, then murmurs, in the shy, small voice that suits the rest of her, her thanks for the Master’s food.

“Good girl. Turn around.” She does so, somewhat apprehensively, but the Master only brushes a finger over the isomorphic lock on her cuffs and takes them off. She rolls her shoulders, stretching them. When the Master tells her to, she crawls under the table, between his knees. “Open my fly,” he says. As with most of his commands, it’s casual, but authoritative. He has absolutely no need to raise his voice or change his inflection to make his slaves obey him. When Emma reaches up to open the button of the Master’s trousers, the gesture feels perfectly natural, as though she’d decided to do it herself. The Doctor knows this not because he feels that way himself, but because, nearly fifty years ago, he’d felt it in the mind of another slave. Thick, shiny, obsidian-black hair falling messily over shoulders the color of coffee with milk, eyes blue as the seas of Earth, pupils dilated, fluttering shut and slowly opening again as she swayed—

“No. Use your teeth.”

The Doctor jumps at the suddenness of the Master’s command. It’s not as sharp as his tongue can get, but it cuts through the Doctor’s reverie like a razor blade through rice paper. He realizes his Master is talking to Emma when she flinches, then leans in, tugs the button free with her teeth. The sight causes a flare of mixed envy and arousal in the Doctor.

Naturally, the Master knows. He always knows. The Doctor knows he knows because he recognizes the smirk on the Master’s face, the smugness in it, and he knows the Master _knows_ he knows because the smirk grows wider. As unbelievable a concept as it is now, the Doctor and the Master used to be, of all things, _enemies_ , and the Master delights in his ownership of his old nemesis. The Doctor delights in it, too. The idea of disobeying his Master, of ever doing anything other than exactly what the Master wanted, makes the Doctor feel like something sharp is pinning his stomach lining to the inside of his throat. The Doctor spent a long time stopping the Master from getting what he wanted, and the Master spent almost as long a time punishing him for it.

Rather than thinking of the neat row of incisions that used to line his collarbones, however, the Doctor chooses to focus on the sound of the Master’s zipper opening, the sight and distant scent of the Master’s erection, already forming under the shiny red fabric of his boxers. The Doctor’s mouth waters, and he swallows thickly.

“Emma, we don’t want to leave the poor, dearest Doctor out of our fun, do we?” Mutely, Emma shakes her head. “Emma. Use your words. We don’t want to leave him out, do we?” Emma stammers her agreement. “Of course not. Open the Doctor’s fly for him, like you did for me.”

The Doctor can’t suppress a smile when Emma crawls between his spread knees, not just because of the Master’s indulgence and his sense of humor, but because he knows what Emma’s going to find when his fly opens. Sure enough, she shrieks and flinches away, eyes wide. “Wh-what is _that_?” she asks, unable to tear her eyes away from the Doctor’s cock as it twitches impatiently inside a clear polycarbonate cage, custom-made by the Master to fit the Doctor.

“It’s called chastity,” the Doctor explains, sounding for a moment like his old self, explaining the day’s events to a confused companion. “It would be wrong for me to get hard without the Master’s permission. Every part of me belongs to him. I have… trouble, sometimes.” A frown creases his brow. “I have trouble being good, see? I can’t make it stop.” He and Emma spend a quiet moment looking at the Doctor’s cock, watching it struggle to escape its prison. “But the Master is very kind to me,” the Doctor says, smiling. “He keeps me safe from myself.”

Emma stares up at him for a moment, then whispers, barely audible, “You’re all insane.”

The Doctor’s smile falls into a wince. For the Master, her punishment is but the work of a moment, and before the Doctor can do much more than flinch away, she’s pinned to the table. He’s not allowed to _not_ watch, so he focuses on her bare feet, watch them twitch and spasm with every blow of the electrified rod the Master keeps on his person at all times. Emma’s screams echo through the kitchen, loudly enough that a few curious heads poke out of doorways from the hallway across the foyer. The Doctor sees them out of the corner of his eye: Ashton looking concerned, Callum downright anxious, Lucian suppressing laughter (the Doctor really does _not_ like him), and August (as usual) very serious. She watches for a few seconds, then returns to her room, but the others remain.

Emma somehow twists one skinny wrist out of the Master’s hand and skitters backward over the table, falls over the edge into a disheveled pile on the kitchen floor. The Doctor hears something snap when she lands. In two strides, the Master walks around the table, brings his foot down. Something snaps again, but the Doctor’s not allowed to look away.

 

“Apologize,” the Master orders, his voice a blow nearly as crushing as the stomp he’d landed on her hand. Emma’s reply is a strangled sob; tears run from the corners of her eyes into her hair. Her mouth moves soundlessly, but no words come out. “Did you hear what I said?”

Emma shivers and shakes her head a little, mouth still forming silent shapes.

Her impudence astonishes him. The drums skitter and distort, increase in volume, as they always do when he’s disobeyed; they drive him down, ironically, to his knees, pinning her arms under them and leaving his hands free to smack her. “Say sorry,” he orders.

“S-s-s—‘m—”

“Say it!”

“I—s-s-s—sor—”

“What’s that?”

“I’m… so-s-s-s—“

The Master has never seen anything like it; he’s not sure whether she’s legitimately having trouble or mocking him. He’s inclined toward the former, as the latter would be suicidal, and he doesn’t think she has the strength of will for it. At last, though, she stumbles over the syllables the Master wants to hear. “Good girl,” he says, feeling his mask of fury fall away, leaving a pleased smirk in its place. “Was that so hard to say?” Emma pauses for a moment, then nods meekly. “Was it? Poor dear. Here we are…” He gets off her and helps her to her feet; she cries out quietly, cradling her broken hand to her chest, the other to her side (probably covering a cracked rib). The Master turns to look at the Doctor, who’s huddled on the floor in the corner against some cabinets, looking scared. “Did you watch?”

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor says. His voice is small and frightened; his knees are drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, making him look much more frail and diminutive than he is. Wide, fearful eyes dart between the Master, Emma, and the baton resting on the kitchen table; one foot and seven inches long, made of a smooth, flexible black wood, its length wound with a conductive wire that delivers a charge on contact with skin. The Doctor always gets jumpy and scared when the Master uses it; of all the means of control and punishment the Master has used on him, electricity is by far the most effective. It’s much less dangerous for Time Lords than it is for humans, but it hurts considerably more due to the sensitivity of their peripheral nerves. The Master sometimes thinks he’d like to teach the Doctor to enjoy a little electro play now and then, but it’s far more useful now as a disciplinary aid.

After closing his fly, the Master retrieves the baton from the kitchen table and puts it away. The Doctor visibly relaxes. “Doctor, will you take Emma to August for me?”

“Yes, Master. Now?”

“Once you’re finished eating.”

“Of course, Master.” The Doctor manages a weak smile and stands, shakes himself a little, sits back at the table, and resumes eating. The Master goes to him, puts a finger under his chin. He freezes, one hand on his glass and one on his muffin, wondering if he’s done something wrong.

“You did watch, didn’t you?” the Master asks softly.

“Yes, Master.”

“Good boy.” The Master takes his finger away from the Doctor’s chin, brushes a few errant strands of hair away from his eyes, traces the shell of his ear. “You understand why I make you watch, don’t you?”

“You want me to see. I have to be… reminded of… of what will happen. If I’m bad.” He shivers a little; the Master catches it with a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder, steadies him.

“And why is that important?”

The Doctor smiles a little. The Master is used to this smile—timid, a little fragile, his Doctor’s best attempt at recovering the beaming grin he had so long ago. Like everything else the Doctor has, it belongs to the Master. “Because I’m _yours_ ,” he says, and that little note of contentment in his voice belongs to the Master, too. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits to see if the Master will approve.

The Master says nothing, watches the Doctor grow more and more nervous.

He’s begging now, begging his Master not to be angry with him, with every cell; the Master reads it in his body. The Master isn’t angry. How could he be, when his Doctor has behaved so well for so long?

“It’s all right.” The tension escapes the Doctor’s body in a sigh of relief. “You’ve been very good. Such a good boy for me.” The Doctor smiles his shy smile again. The Master is sorely tempted to kiss it off his lips, to replace that sweet obedience with helpless lust and _tame_ him, but the Doctor has little Emma to attend to. “After August finishes with her, leave Emma with Callum and come upstairs,” the Master says.

The Doctor’s smile widens. “Of course, Master.”

 

The Doctor feels an immediate sense of loss when the Master takes his gloved hand off the back of the Doctor’s neck, but he doesn’t move. “See you later, Emma,” the Master says with a wink, cheeky as ever, and heads up the stairs.

The Doctor returns to his muffin, eating more quickly than before now that he has something to do. So quietly he almost doesn’t hear her, Emma pleads, “P-please, help me. I c-can’t stay here.”

The Doctor’s hearts ache with sympathy again. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know you’re scared, but it will be okay.”

“Y-you’re wrong. This p-place isn’t right. He can’t treat people that way.”

The Doctor chuckles a little. “You remind me of me a little bit,” he says, and finishes his muffin. “C’mon. I’ll take you to August.”

“August?”

“She disciplines people the Master doesn’t have time for. She also fixes serious injuries, like what happened to your hand.”

“Is she g-g-gh-gonna hurt me?”

“No one will hurt you as long as you behave.” The Doctor leads her out of the kitchen and down the short hallway where August’s, Callum’s, and Ashton’s rooms are, knocks on August’s door, and enters. The room smells like leather and polish as it always does. The Doctor likes it in here, as long as August isn’t disciplining anyone. He likes to help her take care of her tools.

At the moment, August is fixing a tear in the tail of a seven-foot-long bullwhip. Emma stops short, pulling away, her breathing quickening, but the Doctor shuts the door before she can slip out.

“You must be Emma,” August says with a friendly smile. Her teeth are very white against her dark features: skin like melted chocolate, neat black hair, intelligence flickering in her dark eyes. August takes her role in the Master’s household _very_ seriously, but she’s a nice enough person.

As August repairs Emma’s broken hand and ribs, Emma asks the Doctor how long he’s been with the Master. “One hundred and ninety-seven years,” the Doctor says proudly.

“Why d-do you all l-lo-loo…” Emma stops, swallows, like she’s trying to eat whatever’s making her stutter. “Why do you l-look so young?”

“The Master’s laser screwdriver has a very special setting, reverses aging. We’ll never grow older as long as he wants us.”

“Have you always b-been his favorite, or does he, you know, choose a diff-d-different one every week or something?”

“No, not always. Lucy was his favorite for a long time, until I started behaving.”

“Was she upset?”

“No, not at all. The rules are different for the Master’s favorite, and Lucy likes being in charge of people.”

“You d-don’t have to follow the same rules?” Emma says, her interest piqued.

“Don’t get too excited,” August chuckles. “He still follows the rules of the house, all the ones Callum has been teaching you. Being the Master’s favorite means the Doctor only _directly_ reports to the Master. Ashton, Sarah, Lucy and I can stop the Doctor if he’s breaking a rule, but we can’t actually punish him ourselves, and we can’t give him any orders. The Doctor can punish the rest of us if he chooses, but he’s not allowed to give us orders, either, just make sure we follow the ones the Master gives.”

“Nice summary,” the Doctor says.

“Thank you,” August replies, grinning. “I like to keep informed. Well, that should do it—two cracked ribs and a broken hand, that’s all. Am I keeping her?”

“No, she’s going back to Callum.”

“Off you go, then. Go see the Master.” August helps Emma off the exam table and shoos her toward the door. She skitters away nervously, eyeing the whip on August’s table. The Doctor wants to comfort her somehow, but he’s not allowed to touch. She’ll be okay, right?

“How’d you know I’m seeing the Master?”

“You always get excited when he’s expecting you,” August says with a knowing smile. “Ashton went all poetic about it the other night. Something about your eyes shining, I dunno.”

The Doctor clears his throat, making noncommittal noises and shuffling his feet awkwardly, fighting an urge to run screaming from the room. He wouldn’t have known how to respond to that _before_ his time on the Valiant, and nearly two centuries have passed since he was last allowed to be sentimental about anything. “Oh, go on, then,” August laughs. “Shunt off.”

 

When the Doctor enters the Master’s bedroom, he does so cautiously; no telling where the Master might be lurking. One particularly memorable evening, the Master was hiding under his own bed and pounced on the Doctor’s ankles as he passed by. He’d been in a very good mood. The Doctor suspects he may actually have been drunk.

The Master’s bedroom is, by far, the Doctor’s favorite room on the Valiant. Only the Doctor and the Master spend any time in here; Lucy used to visit sometimes, but now she and the Master use the rooms downstairs when they play together, so the Doctor’s sensitive nose only picks up the Master’s scent. The Master’s bed is at the far end of the room on a raised platform. It’s huge, of course, even though he’s the only person who’s ever in it. The Doctor has never seen him sleep, but he imagines the Master likes to sprawl. Above it, there’s a gridwork of steel poles, firmly anchored into three walls and to the ceiling, from which the Doctor has occasionally been suspended when the Master wants to keep an eye on him overnight.

Two doors are set into the wall to the left of the Master’s bed. The nearer one is the door to the Master’s personal bathroom; the Doctor is allowed only to use the toilet, but he’s frequently tempted by the huge tub, the cavernous shower, the Jacuzzi, all set in the same shining black marble and gold fixtures. The Doctor gets sprayed down in the water play room, like the other slaves, if he needs a shower. The other door is roughly the size of a coffin lid, with the long side parallel to the floor, the bottom edge slightly below waist height. It contains a padded alcove, much like the catacombs where the dead were once laid to rest, where the Doctor sleeps. They call it his closet. The opposite wall is decorated, rather functionally, with implements the Master is fond of using on the Doctor: an array of leather, steel, and silk, a matching set of whips, clamps, cuffs, plugs, and numerous other toys, either hanging patiently from nails in the wall or neatly arranged in glass cases. The Doctor knows them well, and has his favorites—the third-largest plug, the rattan cane, that slim collar with the thick padding. And, of course, the Master’s riding crop, but its space is empty as usual. The Master likes to carry it with him.

“Anything catch your eye?” The Master doesn’t raise his voice, but the Doctor jumps, startled, and turns around. He doesn’t answer; the Master doesn’t want one. “Strip,” he says.

The Master likes the Doctor to go slowly, and he does, pulling his shirt over his head with deliberate sluggishness. He used to look away from the Master when he did this, didn’t want to see the lust scrawled on the Master’s face, but now he can’t turn away. Not when the Master’s tongue runs over his lips lasciviously, not when desire dances in his dilated pupils this way.

The Doctor has been indoors in the Master’s suite for a long, long time; since the Valiant was refitted for space travel a hundred and thirty-two years ago, there are no windows to the outside, and the Doctor can’t steal a bit of sunlight every now and then as he used to. As a result, his already light skin has paled even more, so when he unbuttons his shirt and removes it, he almost shines in the darkness of the Master’s bedroom. His skin is the color of porcelain, and soft and smooth despite the Master’s frequent mistreatment of it; Time Lords don’t scar, and most of the Doctor’s freckles faded over time. The Master removed most of his body hair via laser before the fiftieth anniversary of their time together, so the only features of the Doctor’s skin are the most stubborn freckles and the occasional mole, including the one between his shoulder blades.

The Doctor runs his hands down his own sides, teasing the Master a little, his fingers trailing over the ghostly impressions of his ribs, his thin waist, his hipbones; he undoes the button of his fly, hitches the waistband of his trousers down a little. The Master smirks. The Doctor knows why, remembers the day he started doing this little striptease without the Master having to order him to, and can’t suppress a smile of his own.

He lets his trousers fall in a puddle at his feet, long, bare thighs gleaming in the dark, his cock tucked neatly between them inside its cage. The Doctor’s not allowed to wear undergarments, so it’s very simple for him to undress.

“Turn around. Hands against the wall, and spread your legs. I need to decide what to do with you.”

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor murmurs. He turns away from the Master at last, presses his palms flat against an empty space on the wall, and widens his stance, his whole body tingling in anticipation of its Master’s attentions.

The tip of the Master’s crop catches the extremely sensitive skin behind the Doctor’s exposed balls. The Doctor cries out softly, unsure (as he always is) whether that hurt or felt good, and lets an arch work its way into his lower back, presenting a small, pert arse to his Master, the way he’s been taught. He should have been standing that way from the moment he put his hands against the wall; the Master was kind to let it go unpunished.

He jumps a little when the crop tickles the skin over his spine, but the Master just runs the tip lightly over his skin, up and down, back and forth. “Oh, dearest little Doctor. What am I going to do with you this morning?” the Master muses aloud. The Doctor waits with bated breath, doesn’t answer. The Master doesn’t take suggestions.

“Hands behind your back.”

The Doctor obliges, presses his forehead against the wall and rests his weight on that rather than his hands, holds them out behind him. His face flushes and a smile creeps onto it when he feels the first cuff wrap around his wrist—leather bands, the lining padded with silk. His favorite cuffs, but the Master doesn’t know that.

“Count the strokes,” the Master tells him. The Doctor knows what’s coming next, and the thought of it sends a pleasant shiver from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine.

“Yes, Master.” The crop whistles slightly in the air before it lands on the inside of a thigh; the Doctor’s body jumps, and he turns his cry of pain into a word, the first of many: “One!”


	3. Violation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master has some fun with the Doctor. And everything goes horribly wrong.

The Doctor’s voice trembles along with his body now as the crop adds to the map of red marks over his thighs and arse yet again. “Twenty-nine!” He’s starting to get a little hoarse; every draft of air makes his skin sting. He shifts his weight a little, wiggles his arse, trying to relieve some of the sensations wreaking themselves upon his body—the maddening, stinging hypersensitivity from the Master’s crop, the pain in his cock as it hardens despite its encasement, the ache of his shoulders and neck from his position. The crop hits his balls once more, harder than the first blow, and the Doctor screams more than speaks when he says, “ _Thirty!_ ”

“Only thirty. I’m far too good to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Master, you’re too good to me.”

“Thank me for the thirty strokes.”

“Thank you for giving me thirty strokes with the crop, Master.”

“Good boy,” the Master says, and the Doctor hisses in pain as his gloved hand runs up the back of one thigh, squeezes one arse cheek and then the other, slides back down the other leg. “Spread your legs more.”

This time, the Doctor’s voice is almost a whisper: “Yes, Master.” He spreads his legs wider, then wider still when the Master taps his inner thighs gently with the crop. The change in position pulls the chastity device harder against his cock, and the Doctor groans with the pain of it.

“Ask me to hit your balls again.”

With no hesitation whatsoever, the Doctor murmurs, “Master, please hit my balls again?”

“Beg.”

“Master,” the Doctor whimpers. “Master, please, more, please hit my balls again, please. _Please_. Master. More, please, Master.”

“Don’t stop,” the Master orders, and the crop flicks against the Doctor’s scrotum, stinging horribly.

The Doctor works his pained noises into his begging, so that each time the crop strikes, there’s a word louder than the rest: “Master, please, _Master!_ , don’t stop, hit me again, _don’t!_ stop, Master, never stop, please, _more!_ Master, again, Master, _Master!_ _Again!_ , please, please, _please!_...”

He’s not counting the strokes, since the Master hasn’t ordered him to, but by the time the crop stops its work, the Doctor has to work hard not to sob as he begs. The Master doesn’t like it when the Doctor cries. He used to wonder why, but he’s long since stopped questioning the Master’s motivations.

He’s been trained not to hold back any noises he tries to make (his Master likes to hear him), so he falls into quiet whimpering as his cock continues its vain attempts at escape. “Maybe I’ll have your mouth today,” the Master muses, and the Doctor releases a soft“ _Guh_ ,” thinks of his lips around the Master’s shaft, the blunt shape of the head in his throat, a long, leisurely morning suck. That had happened once, years ago, the Master sitting on his bed, the Doctor kneeling at his feet, head bobbing slowly in the Master’s lap as the Master guided him with one gloved hand. It’s the closest the Doctor’s ever come to literally sharing a bed with the Master, and the memory makes his chest ache with longing.

“Oh, I know,” the Master says, his voice dripping with smugness. “If you can earn it, I’ll let you suck me now, and have your arse before bedtime. Hm?” Leather against skin, _crack-crack_ , as the Master leaves two handprints over the marks left by the crop earlier, and the Doctor _moans_.

The Master takes the Doctor’s balls in one hand, squeezes and rolls them. The Doctor’s knees nearly give out from the combination of pain and pleasure; the Master’s not doing anything that would hurt someone else, but considering the mistreatment the sensitive area has just received, the slightest brush of the soft leather on his skin makes him pull away and thrust in turns, unsure what he wants.

The Doctor’s not entirely surprised when a jute rope loops around his balls, since the Master’s done this many times before, but it does make him whine in the back of his throat. He wants his Master _now_.

The Master orders him to turn around and get down on his knees; the Doctor can only obey, watching helplessly as the Master crosses the room, settles comfortably in the large armchair (black leather, naturally) against the opposite wall. His fly is already open, and the Doctor gets a sudden image of the Master striking him with the crop in one hand as the other hand rubs over the tent in the front of his trousers, and moans again as his cock strains harder still against its polycarbonate prison.

The Doctor’s mouth waters as the flushed head of the Master’s erection emerges. In the darkness of the room, wrapped in the black of the Master’s suit and décor, it almost looks like candy. “Come and get it,” the Master says, teasing him.

The Doctor knee-walks forward, his moan long and thready as the rope loses slack, tightens around his balls, pulls them harder and harder as the Doctor strains toward his Master. It hurts like hell, but that’s not important. Only the Master is, the Master and the taste of him, the spice and salt of Time Lord and sweat.

When he’s crawled as far forward as he can, he strains forward (not too far or he’ll overbalance; his hands, after all, are still cuffed behind his back), and his lips brush against the vein along the underside. His forehead prickles with sweat as he strains forward again, stretches with his tongue as well as the rest of his body, and only just manages to _lick_ , the taste flooding his mouth, making him hungrier still. He surges forward and immediately back again, shrieking in pain as the rope jerks on his balls, whimpering as he tries again, pulls slower this time. That’s going to bruise.

“Eager boy,” the Master chuckles. “Good. Come on, come and get it…” He’s teasing even more now, wraps a hand loosely around his cock and strokes it a few times, pulls it away from the Doctor’s lips. The Doctor wants to protest, but he’s not allowed to unless the Master orders it. He’ll just have to try harder still. Sweat is beading on his skin now, and he can’t quite swallow his whimpers, which fall from his open lips freely. He stretches, reaches with his tongue, and at last tastes him again, again, once more. “Good,” the Master murmurs, and the Doctor licks again, then pauses to whisper the Master’s name. “ _Very_ good. Want more, hm?”

_Yes Master please more moremore sohungryMaster wantyouwantyourtaste wanttotellyouhowI’myours wanttoshowyou wanttomakeyousee makeyoucomeinmymouth showyousoyouunderstand Ineedyouneedyouneedyouneedyouneedyouneedyouneedyouneedyouneedyou MasteryesMastermore_

The Doctor makes no reply, ignores the litany of desires in his mind and awaits his Master’s mercy.

The Master’s mercy arrives in the form of the Master pressing the head of his cock against the Doctor’s lips, allowing the Doctor a few blissful moments where his whole world shrinks to his tongue against that slit, lips sealed and cheeks hollowed around the shaft. The Doctor’s hearts ache with happiness. His Master is being so, so kind to him, letting him suck without a gag this way. He hums happily, draws circles with the tip of his tongue, bobs his head a few times.

“Deeper,” the Master says, thrusting shallowly, settling more comfortably in his chair. He’s in a good mood. The Doctor would like to look up at him (he imagines the Master is wearing that half-smile, just for his Doctor), but his task is more important. He’s had nearly two centuries of practice, and knows just how the Master likes it. Even though he relaxes his throat as much as possible, it’s difficult to take the Master this far in, and his eyes tear up slightly as the Master continues thrusting. “Such a good boy for me,” the Master says, his voice low and a little bit husky, and when the Doctor feels the soft leather of his glove settle on the back of his head, the pain of the Master fucking his throat becomes so much more endurable. His Master approves. All is well.

 

The Doctor likes it better when the Master comes in his mouth (he likes to taste it), but he hasn’t done it in the Doctor’s windpipe this time, so it’s all right. Every time he swallows, he’s pleasantly reminded in a sticky, achy way of the Master accepting the Doctor’s devotion before demanding it by fucking his throat, the comforting weight of the Master’s hand. It makes him smile a little. Between his throat and the small plug the Master pushed into him before uncuffing him and sending him downstairs, he grins all through lunch. He can’t be in the bedroom without the Master unless the Master leaves him there, but there’s a spare room he’s allowed to use when he works.

Technically, the basement isn’t really a basement at all, since they’re on a spaceship and nothing is underground, but they call it the basement because it’s the bottom floor of the huge impact chamber that forms the Master’s personal quarters. Between the wet room, the White Room, the cells, the secondary electro-play room, and the morgue, the Doctor has more bad memories that take place down here than the rest of the Valiant combined. He shivers the whole way down the hall, and not just from the icy draft of air escaping from under the door to the wet room. The spare room is the last door on the right, across from the morgue, and he ducks in quickly. It’s filled with a jumble of random odds and ends the Master can’t be bothered to get rid of, but doesn’t want cluttering the place up—spare chairs for the kitchen table, a few empty wardrobes, boxes filled with knickknacks, and, most interestingly, a broken bed, two of its legs blasted off, a mess of furniture foam and twisted metal springs hanging to the floor under the huge hole in the mattress and box spring. The Doctor isn’t entirely certain, but he’s pretty sure the Master shot it repeatedly of boredom one day.

The Doctor’s workspace is on the floor, in a secluded corner between a wardrobe and the bed. The remains of a tattered couch cushion serve as his seat; he leans back against the wall and works off of an old laptop, squirming every so often to accommodate the plug in his arse. The self-resetting reflex arc circuit the Master needs is relatively simple compared to some of the projects the Master has assigned before, but it’s complex enough to be absorbing, and the Doctor whiles away an hour or so perfecting the design of the bits he’s done so far.

He’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Sarah is cooking tonight, he knows, but it’s far too early to be dinnertime. He peeks around the wardrobe to find Lucian closing the door.

“What are you doing in here?” The Doctor sets the laptop aside and stands, resisting a smirk as the plug shifts pleasantly inside him.

“Came looking for you,” Lucian replies.

“What for?” the Doctor asks, somewhat incredulously. The Doctor can’t give Lucian anything he needs, so what in the world is he doing here?

“Orders,” Lucian says shortly. He crosses the room in two strides and grabs the Doctor by the wrists. The Doctor’s hearts leap into his throat, and he yanks them free.

“You’re not allowed to touch me,” he snaps. “Get the hell out of here.”

“I’m allowed to touch if ordered.” Lucian’s wearing his trademark smug grin, and the tone of his voice is mocking. “The Master asked me to… soften you up for tonight.” There’s a hard glint in his eyes now. “ _Tenderize_ you.”

Ice rolls down the Doctor’s spine, making him shiver. “Okay,” he says, his voice strangely calm, unsuited to his pounding hearts and the lump in his throat. “Let me just check with Lucy. He’ll have told her.” The Doctor heads for the door; Lucian steps in front of him. “‘Scuse me,” the Doctor says softly.

“You don’t need to check with Lucy,” Lucian says, taking a step closer to the Doctor, who takes a step back in response. “Unless you’re trying to avoid following the Master’s order? What would he think of that, I wonder?”

Ice floods the pit of the Doctor’s stomach, and this time he doesn’t step away when Lucian comes entirely too close for comfort.

Lucian shoves him; he stumbles backwards, trips over something, and crashes into the broken bed. Lucian’s on top of him like a wild dog, and in mere moments, with a sound of tearing fabric, the Doctor’s naked below the waist. By the time Lucian pulls the plug out of the Doctor’s arse and lets it drop carelessly to the floor, the Doctor is struggling to get away, clawing at the broken bed. “I want to check with Lucy! Let me go! I want to check with Lucy!”

Suddenly, he’s swept up in a rush of nausea and pain. Time stutters and skips, and he finds himself bent over something hard with sharp edges. Someone is fucking him roughly. This strikes him as very wrong for some reason, but he can’t think why. He gets fucked a lot here. Why is this different?

It _hurts_. The Master is never this rough with him, or at least not without preparation and lots of lube. He thinks he might bleed.

Nausea again. How long has he been here? The pain is worse. What’s wrong with his head? Something wet and hot trickles down his leg.

The door opens. It’s his Master. The Doctor smiles when he sees him, ready for the Master’s approval, for the pain to become bearable after the Master gives his blessing.

It doesn’t come.

The world spins. The Doctor’s on the floor. The Master’s beating him, a rain of electrified blows, dragging him back when he tries to crawl under the bed. It takes him a long time to realize the Master is talking, harsh words that make the Doctor want to cover his ears and run away. He’s having trouble understanding them.

A steel door, labeled “Electro Two.” This is a very, very bad room. The Doctor doesn’t want to go inside, but the Master makes him.

The world becomes pain.

 

The Master sees red, literally. He wonders if the Doctor can feel all the lacerations and shallow stabs and slowly bleeding veins after having that much electricity running through his body for so long. The White Room’s walls, floor, and ceiling are spattered with the Doctor’s blood.

Good. He deserves it.

 

The Doctor is alive, but he doesn’t particularly want to be. His whole body is still burning and tingling from electricity, though he can’t quite remember why he was electrocuted in the first place. The parts he can feel are sluggish and painful, split and sharp, and some of them cold. Extremely cold.

He dares to open his eyes. He’s in the wet room. He watches his own shallow breaths turn to fog for a little bit before he remembers that he’s supposed to be figuring out what’s going on. He really is quite cold.

The Master is spraying him down with icy water. It takes him a moment to figure out that the Master is most likely doing this because he’s covered in his own blood, which is still oozing sluggishly from wounds all over his body.

The Doctor closes his eyes.

 

When he next opens them, he’s on the floor of one of the basement cells. His wounds have scabbed over, thankfully, so they aren’t quite as tender as before. They do, however, still hurt like hell. At least his head feels better.

It’s very cold in here, and he hasn’t been given any clothes. With considerable difficulty, he crawls into the corner, his back to the wall, and curls up as tightly as possible, trying to warm himself up. He thinks of where he was last night, safe in his closet, warm and comfortable, drifting off to sleep after the Master’s goodnight kiss. He remembers it clearly, the Master leaning down, his lips gentle and soft against the Doctor’s, and the smile on his face as he murmured, “Goodnight,” before locking him in.

The Doctor looks down at himself, at the map of bruises and cuts and the tiny black electrical burns, and he starts to cry. He’s not supposed to, but he can’t help it. Just another rule he’s broken today, he supposes, but he’s not quite sure what the others were.

The Master has always been very clear about what he’s punishing the Doctor for, only this time, the Doctor can’t quite remember what it was. Maybe the Master told him while he was punishing him. The Doctor remembers him talking, but not what he was saying. He’s always been shamefully inattentive while he’s being punished.

The Master smiled, last night, before he kissed the Doctor goodnight. The Doctor’s smile. And now the Doctor’s ruined it, and he doesn’t even know _how_.

The ache in the Doctor’s chest intensifies, twists painfully, and his tears turn into sobs.


	4. Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor thinks he knows what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of new chapters; I had Interweb issues and couldn't post any. Here, take three.

The Master has been a tad tetchy since the Doctor’s betrayal. (Upon his attempt to review the security tapes of the… incident, the Master found he couldn’t even make it past the point where the Doctor and Lucian started chatting it up before he put his fist through the monitor.) Fortunately for his slaves, however, he’s also been busy. A collection of irritatingly successful upstarts has been planting small nuclear devices in his rocket factories, which is obviously a great big inconvenience. He has a feeling a certain immortal human from the 51st century has something to do with the success of the organization.

He spends most of his time in his office, organizing cleanups and tightening security protocols and designing more durable facilities. He leaves his office only at mealtimes and to put the Doctor to bed. After a few days in the cell, he’s allowed to sleep in his closet again. He’s been very quiet since the Master punished him, and for good reason; the Doctor hasn’t been punished that thoroughly in decades. He’ll get over it.

Speaking of bedtime, it’s well past the Doctor’s. The Master stands and stretches languidly, exits his office, and looks around. The Doctor is usually to be found hanging about the door to the Master’s office, waiting to be taken up to his closet, but the Master doesn’t see him tonight. Frowning, he heads down the hall to the common area. Sarah’s relaxing in an armchair, reading. Lucian’s at her feet, quite literally. Since the incident, Lucian’s duties have included becoming human furniture, and Sarah apparently wanted a footrest; Lucian’s on his hands and knees, his face a mask of anger and humiliation. The Master still feels a sick, hot, wordless fury whenever he looks at Lucian, so he keeps his eyes fixed on a few disorderly books on the wall-to-wall shelves. “Where’s the Doctor?” the Master asks.

“Lucy’s taken him to August,” she says. “Apparently, he fell down the basement staircase.”

 

The Master comes into August’s room to find the Doctor sitting on her table, his left ankle at a rather odd angle. No tears, though. Good. The Doctor hasn’t cried since his first night in the cell. The Master can’t help but feel a combination of pride and relief.

“What happened?” the Master asks.

“I tripped, Master,” the Doctor replies. “Sorry.”

“You tripped down a staircase?”

“Yes, Master. _Ah!_ ” He jumps and cries out when August tugs on his foot, setting the broken bone in his ankle. It’s not really necessary, as Time Lords have self-setting bones, but it certainly speeds things along. So does August’s “magic wand,” the medical tool she uses to fix everything from broken bones to lacerations deep enough to be lethal.

“Do be more careful,” the Master orders. “I don’t want you bothering August all the time.”

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor replies meekly. August finishes mending the bone and he slides off the table, playing favorites with his feet. His ankle will be sore for a while. Good. Maybe it will teach him a lesson.

“Come.” The Doctor follows the Master out of August’s room and up the two staircases to the Master’s bedroom. He’s so quiet that the Master glances down at him to make sure he’s still following a couple of times, and there he is, trailing a few steps behind the Master, watching the Master’s shoes. The Master opens the Doctor’s closet and turns around, waiting for him to clamber inside, and finds him standing by the door. He’s looking at the Master’s armchair, an expression of deepest longing on his face. What’s that about? “Doctor?”

He jumps, startled. “Master?”

He thinks about asking what the Doctor was thinking about, but decides against it. “Do you need the loo?”

“No, Master.”

“All right. In you go.” The Doctor nods and crosses the room, limping a little bit. He’s also shivering. The Master frowns slightly, hoping the Doctor isn’t getting ill. He should probably have been more careful about all those open wounds. “Well, get in,” he says. The Doctor obeys, crawls into his closet. “Goodnight,” he says, and shuts the door, then locks it.

 

The Doctor curls up in the corner, his back to the wall. He doesn’t have blankets or sheets or even a pillow, so he just huddles up as tightly as possible. He normally spreads himself out a bit, but he’s so _cold._ He has been since he woke up in the wet room. He’s wondered if he has hypothermia or something, but August says he’s fine.

The scabs from the Master’s punishment are healing, but slowly. They’re sticking to the padded bottom of the closet, pulling painfully, and he still can’t remember what he did to earn them. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

 

Now then. The bombers have to be getting their nuclear material from _somewhere_. He’s still waiting for the radioisotope analysis, but he’s willing to bet they’ve been stealing from the fuel stocks of the factories themselves. They obviously have access to the buildings, so either they have a way around his security systems, or someone has been betraying him. If the latter is the case, someone’s going to have a very painful day. He decides to have a look at the stockpile figures. He’ll have to have the Toclafane check that the numbers are right, obviously, but he can still check if anyone has been producing more (or less) nuclear fuel than the work schedule demands and has been dumb enough to note it in the records.

Unfortunately, there’s an awful lot of data. By the time he’s halfway through it, there’s a major crick in his neck, and he still hasn’t found anything of note. He keeps at it, though. The Toclafane are endlessly useful for enforcement and research, but they’re useless for analysis, and he can’t have the Doctor knowing this much about his operations. The crick in his neck travels down his back, sits uneasily in his spine. He’s going to need a back rub or two after this.

He can hear people moving about downstairs. What’s that all about? He realizes it’s nearly nine in the morning, ship’s time. He’s been up all night. More importantly, the Doctor has apparently not used his call button this morning—usually, around eight or so, the Doctor will thumb the little button in his closet so that the Master will come let him out to use the loo. An alarm goes off on the Master’s watch when the Doctor does so, a beeping noise and a blinking light. Now, however, it’s silent.

The Master heads upstairs, passing Ashton and Lucy as they head down for breakfast. The Doctor is just where the Master left him, curled up in his closet, shivering as though cold. He’s still asleep, arms folded against his chest, legs drawn up as close as possible around them. He looks very small.

The Master gives him a quick scan with the laser screwdriver, but the Doctor doesn’t stir, despite the noise and the light. According to the scan, the Doctor is mostly healthy, but slightly anemic, which could explain the shivering.

“Doctor?” At the sound of his name, the Doctor stirs, blinks his eyes open.

“Master? Something wrong?”

“You’ve slept in. It’s nearly nine in the morning.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Did you sleep well last night?”

The Doctor hesitates, then shakes his head. “No, Master.”

“Why not?”

The Doctor shivers again, avoids the Master’s eyes nervously. His mouth opens, like he’s about to speak, but no words come out; it reminds the Master uncomfortably of Emma and the soundless shapes she makes when she’s scared. “Don’t know, Master. Sorry.”

“All right. Come on. Let’s get some breakfast.”

“Yes, Master.”

 

Sarah’s cooking this morning. She’s a small, sturdy girl, short brown curls piled messily on top of her head. She’s all smiles when she sees the Doctor. “Morning, Doctor,” she says, making a funny little movement with her hips, as though wagging a tail. She’s always doing that when she’s excited. It’s rather adorable. Sarah is the only person in the house who enjoys playing puppy; for everyone else, it’s a punishment, but for Sarah, it’s a reward. She says it’s easier than being a person. The Doctor sympathizes with her.

“Hallo, Sarah. What are you making this morning?”

“Blueberry pancakes with a side of spicy breakfast sausage,” she says, smacking her lips.

“Sounds lovely to me,” the Doctor replies.

“I’d be fancier, but I’ve got to clean out the spare room with Ashton before lunch. Fancy joining us?”

“No, thanks,” the Doctor replies. “I’ve got to finish a schematic.” He’s also been avoiding the spare room like the plague since what happened with Lucian.

He sits at the table, to the Master’s right side as always. Lucian’s still not allowed at the table, so he takes his plate and goes to eat by himself in the foyer. The Doctor would kill (figuratively) for a hot cup of tea, but there’s none to be found, so he makes do with the coffee at the bottom of the pot, the Master’s unwanted extra. At least it’s hot. He’s just so _cold_. He’s starting to ache from shivering so much.

Sarah’s pancakes are brilliant, as usual, and they make him feel a little bit better. After all, the Master isn’t so angry with him that he’s withholding food. He’d seemed so angry during the Doctor’s punishment, and the Doctor can’t help but wonder why he’s not as angry now.

The Doctor remembers, quite suddenly, that the Master hadn’t given him a kiss goodnight last night. Or the night before. And of course he hadn’t given any when the Doctor was in the cell, and the Doctor abruptly realizes that the Master hasn’t been giving the Doctor those little scraps of affection he cherishes: no goodnight kisses, no fleeting touches, no sex at all. He’d been so caught up in the Master’s standard means of punishing him (the obvious punishments, like the electro room and forcing him to sleep in a cell, the beatings, refusing him food) that he forgot the Master has other ways to hurt him, as well. Even when, over a century and a half ago, the Doctor still refused to obey the Master, the Master had never withheld his gentler affections, and he _can_ be gentle. He thinks of the way the Master petted him a little during their conversation after he punished Emma in the kitchen, and his hearts twist painfully again.

The Master is angry, in a way he never has been before. The question is _why_. He would ask the Master, but he doesn’t want to reveal how inattentive he was during the punishment; it’s not really against the rules, but the Master would be unhappy nonetheless. He’ll have to work it out himself and do something to correct it.

 

The Master becomes worried when the Doctor sleeps in for three days in a row. His anemia is improving, at least, but the Master takes him to August for a proper scan anyway. The scanner doesn’t work like one, but it looks like a big MRI; it makes a lot of noise, but the Doctor sleeps through the entire twenty-minute scan. Dark shadows are blooming under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, but he’s calm enough now.

The scan shows his anemia is nearly done with, as well as a whole host of recently-healed injuries, which is nothing unusual. Otherwise, he’s perfectly healthy, at least in the physical sense. The Master’s face creases into a frown. The Doctor had some depression issues after he first started submitting to the Master’s will, refusing to eat and unable to sleep well for nearly a year, acting out in little ways, but those problems disappeared after the Master gave him some time off. Perhaps that’s what he needs now, a break from his regular schedule. Now that the Master thinks of it, his decision to let Lucian fuck him could have been a sign that something was wrong. He decides to give the Doctor a rest, a chance to recuperate. He does tend to get stressed if he spends too much time with the Master.

 

“You can come up here whenever you like,” the Master says, and the Doctor watches him turn a little key in the lock of the door to his closet. “I’ll leave it unlocked for you. You can work in here, you can even eat in here if you want. Do keep it clean, though.” He grins a little bit, and the Doctor nods, unsmiling. “I won’t come to wake you anymore, and you don’t have to wait for me to get you before you go to sleep. All right?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’ve got to go back to my office now. Be good.”

The Master’s already halfway out of the room by the time the Doctor whispers, “Yes, Master.”

He doesn’t understand. What’s he done now? Or is it the same thing he did wrong as before, only he hasn’t corrected it? He’s been following the rules, or at least the ones he remembers. He might ask Callum to list them all for him, to see which one he’s broken. But then Callum would tell the Master that the Doctor asked, and the Master would know how inattentive the Doctor was during his punishment.

He sighs and curls up in his closet, shutting the door behind him, pretending the Master has locked him in and is just on the other side. Unfortunately, it’s dark in here, and the Doctor hasn’t been very fond of the dark recently. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Lucian advancing on him, and being in the dark is close enough for his mind’s eye. The Doctor reaches out to the wall and flicks a switch on instinct; to his surprise, the little light in the ceiling comes on. Lucian’s hard, wild eyes vanish in favor of the padded interior of his closet.

The Doctor’s harsh breathing is very loud in the tiny space. He swallows, adjusts himself. It’s strange not to have a plug in him, no clamps on his balls or his nipples, no come sticking in his throat or slicking his arse. He fondles himself gently through his trousers, feeling the hard shape of the polycarbonate cage around his cock, and wonders if the Master is even going to milk him anymore.

A memory flashes across his mind: the Doctor’s bent over the Master’s lap, a prostate massager in his arse, his hips gyrating and thrusting slowly as the Master teases long streams of precome out of his cock with a gloved hand. He normally does it with machines, but that morning, the Doctor had refused to kneel when the Master asked, and he was still in pain from the punishment, so the Master was gentle with him. He’d paid his due, and the Master could be kind when the Doctor was good.

He’s not being good now. But the Doctor knows now _exactly_ what needs to happen; he’ll find out what he’s done wrong and beg for forgiveness, and the Master will punish him, and once he’s paid for what he did in full, the Master will take him back again. He’ll fuck him and milk him and touch him and give him his kiss goodnight, and everything will be as it was before the Doctor ruined it. The question is, what’s he done wrong?


	5. Suspended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bondage interlude, after which things go slightly sideways. Again.

The Doctor doesn’t understand why he has to move from the Master’s room to the sick bay, adjacent to August’s room. August said it’s because he spent so much time in his closet, but the Doctor doesn’t get why that’s such a problem. The Master gave him permission to stay there. He was quiet, he did his work, he kept it clean, so why can’t he be in his closet?

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, examining his toes, when Lucy comes in. “Hello, Lucy,” he says. “How come I can’t be in my closet?”

She frowns. “Doctor, you didn’t leave the Master’s rooms for four days.”

He blinks. “Four? Can’t be.”

“Four days,” she confirms. “And you didn’t sleep.”

“I was just in there for the day,” the Doctor says, puzzlement creasing his brow. “I was working. I got loads done.”

“It might have felt like a day, but you didn’t leave the Master’s rooms for four days, Doctor. You didn’t even come down to eat.”

“I was going to,” he insists. “I was _working_. I don’t need to be here, I’m not ill.”

“Not… physically, no,” Lucy says, tutting when he stands up. “Lie down, Doctor.”

“If I’m not sick, there’s no reason to keep me here,” the Doctor says stubbornly.

“Doctor, _lie down_.”

“I don’t have to if I don’t want to. You can’t give me orders,” the Doctor says sharply. Lucy purses her lips disapprovingly, and he murmurs, “Sorry. That was rude.”

“Yes, it was,” Lucy says tightly. “Lie. Down.”

He sighs and reclines on the bed. It’s not that the bed itself is uncomfortable, just that the sick bay is so much bigger than his closet, and much, much busier, since everyone is allowed in here. It also smells of disinfectant and human and plastic and stainless steel, instead of the Masterly blend of scents in the Master’s private rooms. Paradoxically, he feels extremely exposed, despite the way all the open space seems to press against him.

He bends his knees and draws them closer to himself, folding his hands in his lap so he can discretely feel the cage around his cock. He’s not aroused at all, quite the opposite, but its presence is reassuring, solid and real when everything else seems so dreamlike.

He’s distracted by a familiar voice just outside the door. “Has Lucy brought him down already?”

August replies, “Yes, Master. He’s inside.”

“Good.” The Master enters, smooth as usual. He looks tired; there are dark circles around his eyes, and his smile doesn’t come as easily as it should. Still, he’s here, dressed as he always is in his neat suit and tie, and he’s _here._

“Hello, Master,” the Doctor greets him, smiling and sitting up.

“Doctor,” the Master replies. He doesn’t smile; the Doctor’s own smile falls. “Aren’t you tired?”

The Doctor thinks about it. “I don’t think so,” he decides. “Was I really in your rooms for four days?”

The Master nods in the affirmative. “Sarah’s making you something. She’ll bring it in a bit. You’re to eat and then go to sleep, do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” The Doctor wants to ask the Master if he’s okay, but that would be speaking out of turn, so he doesn’t say anything, just worries about it quietly to himself.

“If you’re good,” the Master murmurs, smiling a bit at last, “I’ll come back in when you wake up, and we can play.”

The Doctor’s hearts lift and then turn over nervously, and he sits up a little straighter, hands fussing in his lap. “I’ll be good, Master,” he says eagerly.

The Master chuckles. “I certainly hope so.” He moves toward the Doctor so that he’s looking down at him, and the Doctor’s hearts leap again, hoping for a goodnight kiss. The Master reaches toward him with a gloved hand; a finger curls under the Doctor’s chin, tilting his head back. The Doctor meets the Master’s eyes, and instantly, his fidgeting hands go still, his nervous smile reshaping itself into an anxious grimace. The Master looks at him for a few moments, his eyes searching the Doctor’s for something, before he frowns. “You’re worried,” he says. “Why?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer. _Are you mad at me?_

“It’s not rhetorical, I really want to know,” the Master chuckles, brushing the Doctor’s hair away from his face. When the Doctor still says nothing, he asks, “Scared of me, are you?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer. _Usually. Are you still mad? I can’t tell if you’re mad._

The Master sighs and frowns a bit. “Doctor, are you in pain?”

He thinks about it; that’s a normal enough question, so he can answer. “M’cock hurts, because you’re here,” he says.

“Why is that?”

“The cage hurts if I get hard enough,” the Doctor clarifies, his gaze turning down, into his lap, his cheeks coloring a little with shame. “I’ve tried, but I can’t stop it. Sorry, Master.”

“That’s all right, we can work on that another time. That’s what the cage is for, remember?”

The Doctor nods, his head drooping a little lower. “I remember.” He does: the Master punished the Doctor so much for being unable to control his arousal that, one day, the Doctor woke up and couldn’t get hard at all, having been beaten and clamped and whipped so much there that his body simply refused to cooperate. The week the Doctor subsequently had to take off to recuperate was motivation enough for the Master to come up with the chastity device. If the Doctor couldn’t stop disobeying, the Master would make it impossible to disobey. The Doctor finds himself wishing he’d made it impossible for the Doctor to do… whatever it was he’d done.

“Does anything else hurt?” the Master asks. The Doctor almost forgets the question, distracted by the Master stroking his hair again.

He considers telling the Master about the throbbing, sick ache in his chest, the one that twists and tears at him whenever he thinks about Lucian, and the Master’s punishment, and the Master’s continued displeasure. He doesn’t quite know how to put it into words, though, so he whispers, “No, Master.” He wasn’t tired in the least before, but he’s now exhausted, and when the Master’s hand cards through his hair a third time, his eyelids drift shut. He thinks he could fall asleep like this, feet on the floor on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, and his Master touching him gently for the first time since his punishment. Now that the Master is here, the Doctor is suddenly aware of how very long it’s been since they’ve seen each other. Four days, indeed. The Master. Here. The Master is with him, touching him. He can’t resist a smile, one that broadens when the Master’s hand brushes all the way down the back of his neck, stroking over his shoulders. The mental chatter of the Doctor’s constant attempts to figure out what he’s done has stopped, replaced by a simple, exhausted hum of _Master. Master. Master. Master_. “Master,” he murmurs.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“’m gonna be good,” the Doctor says. “Promise. And we can play again.” His lips around the Master’s cock, the Master’s hand in his hair, thrusting into the Doctor’s throat. Yes. _Yes._ And everything will be okay again, he can make it up to his Master, show him how sorry he is for whatever he’s done, and then it won’t matter what it was because he’ll have his Master again. He’ll have goodnight kisses again.

“What are you smiling about?” the Master asks, sounding amused. His fingers trace a pattern on the back of the Doctor’s neck.

“You came back,” the Doctor says. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I’ve seen you,” the Master replies. “You’ve been working hard. You deserve a little rest.”

“Thank you, Master.” The Doctor thinks for a moment. “You’ve seen me?”

The Master nods. “I was watching you work from my office. Is the schematic almost done?”

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor says eagerly.

“Good.” He pets the Doctor’s hair again, strokes his cheek, and the Doctor lets his eyes fall shut, luxuriating in the sensation of the Master’s leather gloves against his skin.

 _Master. Master. Master. Master._ says the Doctor’s mind. “Master?” says Sarah, and the Doctor’s eyes open again. Sarah’s carrying a tray of food, which means it’s time for the Doctor to eat and go to sleep, and when he wakes up, the Master is going to come and play with him. His smile widens. “Hello, Doctor,” Sarah greets him, smiling. “I’ve made you something easy, since you haven’t had anything in so long. Poor dear. Here you are…” She sets the tray down next to him. Chicken soup, cheese and crackers, and a glass each of water and milk. To his delight, there’s also a large, hot, soft cookie. “Eat slowly, now. You’ll need to get used to it.”

“It smells good,” the Doctor says. “Thank you, Sarah.”

“You’re very welcome.”

The Doctor’s just reached for the cookie when he realizes the Master’s gone. “Where’s he gone?” he asks anxiously, looking round, as though the Master might be stretched out on top of the shelves or crouching in a cabinet.

“Back to work, I expect,” Sarah answers. “He’s been busy. Not too busy for you, though, so eat and sleep, like he said to.” She grins. “He’s looking forward to playing with you, I think.”

The Doctor grins shyly. “Okie dokie. Thank you, Sarah.”

“Goodnight, Doc.”

The food is good, so he forgives her for calling him Doc. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he starts eating, but he takes Sarah’s advice and goes slowly. When he’s finished, he sets the tray on the bedside table, curls up, and falls into an uneasy sleep.

 

The Master has given orders for the Doctor to go to the suspension room, which is across the hall from the sick bay. It’s a small, dark place; the walls and ceiling are painted black, but shine with a grid of welded steel poles, which are studded periodically with D-rings. The wall nearest the door is home to a large cabinet full of ropes and cuffs and harnesses and chains, with which the Master suspends his pets from the ceiling, and a host of other toys. With a thrill of delight, the Doctor sees that the Master has brought in some machines, as well, which might mean he’s getting milked today.

“On your knees,” the Master says softly, speaking from his seat in the corner. He’d been waiting for the Doctor to arrive. The Doctor falls to his knees automatically, wanting to look round and see his Master, but the Master doesn’t like him to stare. Maybe just a peek? The Doctor bows his head and peeks out of the corner of his eye, watching the Master’s shoes as he stands and walks around, standing in front of the Doctor. The Doctor wonders, not for the first time, what the Master’s feet look like. “Look at me.”

The Doctor looks up immediately. The Master is smiling a bit, the Doctor’s smile. His hearts swell fit to burst with happiness. He wants to say the Master’s name, but he wouldn’t have any reason for doing so besides the fact that his mind has resumed its silent chant of _Master_ , and it would be nice to hear it aloud.

“Did you miss me?” the Master asks, putting a hand on the back of the Doctor’s head.

“Yes, Master,” the Doctor murmurs, resisting an urge to nuzzle into the Master’s touch.

The Master chuckles. “That was rhetorical, Doctor, but it’s nice to know you enjoy my company.” The Doctor blushes, embarrassed. He’s usually good at determining whether the Master wants an answer or not, but he really _did_ miss the Master. “You can stand up now,” the Master murmurs, and the Doctor does so. “Strip.”

The Doctor obeys, stripping a bit faster than usual in his eagerness for his Master’s attentions. The Master, for his part, seems to be taking his time, and emerges from the cupboard with a considerable length of black nylon rope. At the Master’s order, the Doctor stands still, head bowed, his legs and arms spread, as the rope settles over his shoulders, tightens around his chest. The Doctor is entranced, eyes drifting shut, at the sensation; he has to keep himself from moaning quietly every time the Master’s gloves brush against his sensitized skin. Oh, he’s missed his Master. But everything will be fine now. He’ll be good, and the Master will forgive him, and by tonight, he’ll be falling asleep in his closet, safe and sated, his lips still tingling from the Master’s goodnight kiss.

He can’t hold back a whimper, and blushes a bit when he opens his eyes to find the Master giving him a quizzical look. “Cock hurts,” the Doctor says, which is perfectly true.

“We’ll fix that soon,” the Master promises, and the Doctor smiles.   “Open.”

The Doctor opens his mouth, his eyes drifting shut again as the Master fits a spider gag in his mouth. He bites down on it, letting it settle against his teeth, sighing happily when the Master brushes a hand through his hair after buckling it at the back of his head. He jumps a bit when the Master takes his wrist, but relaxes when he only guides it behind him, pressing it against a knot at the small of his back, and ties first one arm, then the other behind him. The Master has gotten extremely good at this over the years, to the point that he can tie the Doctor into the position he wants and suspend him with a single length of rope.

The pulley takes his weight slowly, until his toes are a few inches off the ground. He’s bent forward in a sort of half-bow, the ropes forming a complex and pleasantly stimulating pattern over his torso, the loose ends dangling down to the floor. The Master puts a spreader bar between his knees, then has the Doctor bend his knees and pulls the loose ends of the rope over his thighs and ankles, tying them off, so that the Doctor’s legs are bent and spread. He smiles and wriggles a bit, feels the ropes tighten and relax and strain and shift against him, then relaxes. The Doctor is actually rather fond of being suspended this way; he can let himself hang in the ropes without having to worry about maintaining the position the Master wants him to be in. He’s tied in it. The work is done for him.

The Master coats a large plug in lube and works it slowly inside him. The spider gag holds his mouth open, so he can’t muffle the pleasured noises he wants to make, and a stream of moans and quiet whimpers escapes him. “Good boy,” the Master murmurs, letting the plug settle inside him, and the Doctor thrusts into the air a few times, clenches around it, feeling wonderfully relaxed and free. His Master is here, holding him with ropes and filling him, stretching him with the plug, and the Doctor will be good for him, will be perfect, and everything will go back to the way it was.

The Master’s leather fingers trail lightly over the Doctor’s balls, and he moans loudly, tries to say the Master’s name through the gag. He’s being so _gentle_. The Doctor briefly wonders why, wonders if it’s something he did, something he could do again when he wants this, but dismisses the thought quickly. It’s not his place to tell the Master what to do, however obliquely he does it, and no matter how much he wants it.

The leather paddle coming down on his back pulls him out of his reverie, and he jumps with a startled yelp. The Master chuckles. The paddle comes down again, then again, and once more on his arse; it catches the base of the plug, making it jump inside him, and the Doctor moans loudly. The Master teases him for several long minutes, alternating between the paddle and stroking him maddeningly with his fingertips. The Doctor swears his cock is going to burst out of its encasement if the Master doesn’t take it off soon. He knows it won’t, of course, but it feels that way.

“You want your cage off?” the Master asks, tugging on it a few times. It’s fairly agonizing, and a stream of whimpers pours from the Doctor’s open mouth.

 _Yes, Master, please, please, please take it off,_ the Doctor wants to say. But he’s not allowed until the Master orders him to beg.

“Want me to milk you?” the Master murmurs, presses his thumb into the Doctor’s perineum and rubs it in circles, extracting more of those pretty pleading noises. “Hmm? Going to come for me, make a nice big mess for Lucian to clean up?”

The Doctor shudders slightly at the unexpected sound of Lucian’s name, but tries to thrust a bit in case the Master thinks he doesn’t want to come. Can’t have any misunderstandings. Not that there’s much room for misunderstandings when the Doctor’s making noises like these, but it can’t hurt to be sure, can it?

He can’t suppress a smile when the Master’s finger brushes over the isomorphic lock set into the transparent polycarbonate. The lock opens with a minute _click_ , and the Doctor moans almost continuously now, hips rolling into the air, making him sway in his ropes, his eyes fluttering shut with pleasure. His cock is free. Every draft of air that passes its way makes him shiver and thrust, makes him arch his back and whimper. He’d beg if he could, just because he wants to, wants his Master, wants to be touched.

He clenches around the plug. It burns slightly, but it will open him up faster, and that’s what the Doctor wants. He loves being milked. It’s the only time he’s ever allowed to come, and virtually the only time he gets any sensation on his cock that doesn’t come in the form of a cane, or a shock, if he’s been bad. He shudders again, trying not to think about that night, the night he ruined everything.

The Master takes his hand away. _Master no, please, don’t stop, never stop, Master, my Master._ He tries to say this all aloud, everything coming out as jumbled vowels, and the Master laughs, gives him a brisk smack on the arse with the paddle. “You’re so pretty when you beg,” he murmurs, and the Doctor flushes scarlet, “that I’ll let you get away with speaking out of turn.” The Doctor bows his head. Should he apologize? He wants to apologize, over and over, but he doesn’t want to speak out of turn again. He decides not to talk, just to be extra-extra-good to make up for it.

A wheel squeaks. The Doctor starts and looks around for the source of the sound, and squirms excitedly when he sees the Master rolling one of the machines into position behind him. He knows it’s not time yet, knows the Master is teasing, but he’s here, he’s with the Master, and the Master’s going to milk him and he’ll be good and get his closet and goodnight kisses and the morsels of affection that he survives on, and everything will be okay again.

 

The Doctor in bondage is always a wonderful sight, but the Master holds a special place for him in _shibari_. Arms and legs tucked neatly out of the way, hanging at slightly above waist height, just enough slack in the ropes for him to do that pretty squirming thing. Oh, _yes_. The Doctor’s pulled taut, a delightful arch in his back, and the pattern of the ropes on his skin makes him look rather like an oddly-strung bow, suspended in space.

The Master reaches between his legs and pulls at the base of the plug in his arse, pulling it slowly out until the flare of it is stretching the Doctor open, and the noises he makes in response are completely helpless as he tries to thrust into it, tries to fuck himself on it, always such an eager boy.

Perhaps too eager at times, the Master thinks, suppressing a white-hot surge of rage at the memory of Lucian bending the Doctor over and the smile on the Doctor’s face.

But that’s over now, isn’t it? The Doctor has had his punishment and is behaving, despite his apparent mental state. The Master thrusts the plug shallowly into the Doctor, moves and tilts it, giving his hands and his Doctor something to do while his mind works. He wonders (while fucking the Doctor idly with the plug) how much longer it will be before the Doctor is up to spec again. He seems fine now, but then he _seemed_ fine before the whole mess with Lucian.

He lets the plug settle in and brings the paddle down hard on the Doctor’s arse, eyes following the way he rises up to meet it. Yes. Fine. _Very_ fine, indeed. The Master does it again, again, drinking in the Doctor’s moans as they grow progressively louder, until the previously porcelain flesh has been heated to a bright pink. The Master pauses to check on him, and finds him drooling slightly, his eyes half-closed, hazy and dark with a heady mixture of lust and pain. A bead of precome rolls down the underside of his cock onto his balls, then drops in a leisurely fashion to the floor, the thread of it shining like a spiderweb in the darkness of the room.

“Oh, my dear Doctor,” the Master murmurs. “You have earned your treat tonight.” He takes hold of the plug again and resumes fucking the Doctor with it, watching greedily as a bit of excess lube escapes the tiny pink pucker as it opens and joins his precome on the floor. He seems exceptionally tight; he’s resisting the plug a bit more than usual at this stage. Curiously, the Master pulls it nearly all the way out, then plants his free thumb firmly in the skin behind the Doctor’s balls as he pushes it back in again. The Doctor makes a strangled mewling noise and _opens_ abruptly, taking the plug entirely in one motion, before shuddering and clenching tight around it again. Well, that’s interesting. “What are you up to? Not resisting me, I hope?”

The Doctor shakes his head vigorously and makes an attempt at saying, “No, Master,” around the gag.

“What, then?” the Master asks, squeezing the Doctor’s balls, flushed and heavy in his hand. He can feel the heat of them even through his glove. The Doctor, for his part, squirms and thrusts helplessly, whimpering prettily. The Master chuckles. “You’re awfully responsive today. Is that what this is?” He fucks the Doctor with the plug a few more times, watching with satisfaction as more precome emerges and follows the same path as the first drop. “Not overwhelming you, am I? It’s your first day back, after all.” He deepens the thrusts and feels the Doctor’s resistance melt away, holding the flare of the plug at the tightest point inside him and moving it gently back and forth, massaging him open from the inside. There’s a steady flow of precome dripping slowly to the floor now, and by the time the Master’s finished, the Doctor couldn’t clench if he wanted to. When he removes the plug, the Doctor’s gaping just slightly, a pinkie’s width, like he’s puckered around an invisible drinking straw. The Master slips one finger inside, shortly followed by another, another, another; he’s taken four fingers easily, and the Master has to convince himself not to try a spot of fisting. He’ll have to do it again soon, as the Doctor’s a positively delightful candidate for it.

Now, though, it’s time for him to come. Eventually. First, though, it’s the Master’s turn. He pulls his wet fingers from the Doctor’s arse (the Doctor makes a strange, almost pained sound), retrieves the lube from the inside pocket of his jacket, and thoroughly coats the dildo attached to the machine he’s stationed behind the Doctor. The dildo is mounted at the end of a long steel pole, which itself is the piston driven by an electric motor, and has the benefit of being remotely controlled and tirelessly brutal. The Master rolls it forward, lines it up, and pushes it into a very vocal and highly appreciative Doctor. He’s still writhing happily on it, as much as he’s able, when the Master walks around in front of him, pulls his head back by the hair, and slides his cock down the Doctor’s throat. The Doctor winces, but swallows around it obligingly, bobbing his head as much as he’s able. “There’s a good boy,” the Master says, and to his surprise, the Doctor redoubles his efforts, his tongue playing a more active role than it usually does when he’s gagged. “Ooh. A _very_ good boy. Chin up, now,” the Master reminds him, releasing his grip on the Doctor’s hair in favor of a leisurely petting motion, and trusting the Doctor to hold his head up on his own. He does so, and remains enthusiastically helpful even as the Master begins fucking his windpipe. He hardly ever chokes anymore, the precious thing.

When he comes, the Master does so into the Doctor’s mouth, watching with surprised satisfaction as he tries to keep anything from escaping. He isn’t swallowing any of it, which is odd, but the Master supposes it must be hard to pull that off when he can’t close his mouth. The Master takes pity on him and removes the gag, watching with great interest as the Doctor smiles his little smile and swallows. The Master has never had much consideration for what the Doctor likes, so he doesn’t ask about it, but it seems his Doctor enjoys the taste of his Master’s come, and that warms the Master’s black little hearts.

“Good boy,” the Master sighs, petting his Doctor some more. _His_ Doctor. He still marvels at that fact, that the Doctor is _his_ now. And his Doctor deserves his reward.

The machine hums quietly to itself as it comes to life, fucking the Doctor slow and deep, and the Master wraps one hand around the Doctor’s full erection. “Hold off as long as you can,” the Master orders, but quietly. The Doctor’s acknowledgment of the order is just as quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the humming of the machine. He gets louder very quickly, head thrown back, whimpering and grunting hoarsely, trying to meet the machine’s thrusts despite being unable to move. When the Master increases the machine’s speed and strokes him in time with it, he becomes entirely incoherent, the syllables issuing from his lips comprised exclusively of nonsense. The Master sneaks a peek at his face. His eyebrows arch delicately above closed eyes, his mouth open and making vague shapes to go with his vague sounds, a picture of ecstasy.

When the Doctor comes, just a bit sooner than the Master would have expected, it’s a satisfyingly large mess. A copious quantity of pearly-white fluid flows from the Doctor’s cock, his balls jumping delightfully, and spatters the floor like a black-and-white Pollock painting. The Master thinks for a moment he caught his own name in the series of long, loud, whimpering moans the Doctor made when it happened, but dismisses it. It wouldn’t do to be egotistical, after all.

The Master licks away a dollop of come that had landed on the back of his glove, smacking his lips appreciatively at the sweet-Doctor-salty-Time-Lord of its taste. The Doctor, for his part, is still smiling his little smile, and has gone limp in his ropes. He looks half-asleep, but shakes himself alert when he feels the first knots come undone, avoiding stepping in his own come at the Master’s instruction. He’s very quiet, but seems content enough, hopping to a clean area of floor to stretch his stiff muscles while the Master puts the rope back in its cabinet. The Doctor’s skin bears reminders of what just transpired, his genitals still slick and sticky with a mixture of lube, come, and pre-ejaculate, his back and arse still glowing faintly pink from the paddle’s attentions, and his slim body imprinted with the pattern of the ropes that the Master tied around him. It suits him well.

 

The Doctor’s pulling his clothes on, heading for the door, but it slides open before he gets to it. On the other side, Ashton and Lucy are holding the leashes of a very irate Lucian and a quietly nervous Emma, respectively. Lucian’s wearing a set of specialized restraints that prevent the wearer from standing upright, and so is on all fours at their feet.

“Heard there’s a mess to be cleaned up, Master,” Ashton says jovially, yanking on Lucian’s leash when he tries to pull on it.

“So there is,” the Master replies, gesturing to the Doctor’s come on the floor. “Make sure he gets it all, won’t you?”

“Of course, Master,” Ashton replies, twirling his wrists and spreading his arms as he sweeps into an exaggerated bow. Lucy giggles, and the Doctor can’t suppress a smile of his own. Even the Master looks amused. The Doctor and the Master join Lucy and Emma in the hallway, and as the door slides closed, the Doctor catches Ashton giving Lucian the curt order to “lick it up, _now_.” He can’t hear Lucian’s response through the door, but he assumes it’s something insulting, as shortly there’s a loud, wet _smack_ and a sound like a puppy being kicked. For all that Lucian pretends otherwise, he doesn’t withstand punishment very well.

Emma, alone of the group, looks frightened by the sounds issuing from behind the door. “Lucian has quite an attitude problem, as you may have noticed,” Lucy says, chuckling. This does not mollify Emma in the slightest. They start off down the corridor to the kitchen, the Master leading the way. The Doctor’s mood is considerably lighter than it has been since his punishment. For once, his day is going well.

The wind whips over the Valiant’s primary flight deck, the cobalt sun forming a pale blue halo around the Master’s head. The commander of the Bracatolian fleet will be arriving shortly to receive orders on how to proceed crushing the last vestiges of resistance in the Hoptifan system; the Master would be greeting him personally. The Valiant is currently refueling and undergoing regular maintenance, dockworkers and their Toclafane supervisors preparing to leave Hoptifan Seven’s atmosphere when the meeting is over. Or, potentially, when the Master’s done sunning himself. He does miss having an atmosphere at times.

Commander Varaian is late. The Master is idly fantasizing about cutting off a few of the commander’s many purple digits when the pilot waves and beckons him through the huge windows. The Master leaves the flight deck for the bridge. “Where are they?” he says impatiently.

“They’re just entering low orbit now, Master,” the pilot replies, with a well-executed salute. “Sensors read some damage to their ship. Looks like they had some trouble getting here, sir.”

“How much trouble?”

“Their starboard primary is blown, sir, they’re running off the auxiliary on that side, but they’ll be able to land without a problem. The damage looks like Judoon laser cannons, but they were looking to disable, not destroy.”

“Any sign they were boarded?”

“Nothing in their broadcast log, sir, but I’m reading particle excitement on the maglocks. Could be nothing, but there’s a chance. They are coming in pretty fast…”

“Everything all right, dear?” Lucy asks.

“Yes, my sweet,” the Master replies, grinning. “But you may want to stay inside until we determine whether that ship is playing host to the Shadow Proclamation.”

Lucy’s lips purse into an amused little smile. “You’d think they would have learned their lesson by now.”

“You’d think. Then again, there’s Lucian.”

Lucy giggles. “He’s so very lucky he’s pretty.”

“He is,” the Master agrees.

The pilot, sounding confused, interrupts their banter. “Sir? I’m getting life form readings.”

“Ooh, goody,” the Master replies, cracking a smile and clapping his hands excitedly. “Judoon?”

“No, sir,” the pilot says, checking the sensor readings again. “Humans. And they’re outside, on the hull. Like barn—”

Before the pilot can finish his sentence, there’s a sound like a bullet train hitting an eighteen-wheeler, and the wall of the bridge facing the flight deck blows in towards them. His ears ringing, the Master attempts to get his bearings, realizing as the dust settles that he’s on his back at the foot of the ramp that leads up to the pilot’s seat, that the pilot himself is about ten feet away with a piece of jagged steel the size of a baseball in what remains of his head, and that the Master himself is peppered with bits of shattered glass. And it hurts.

“Ow,” he says numbly. He can’t hear it. He also can’t hear when he chuckles good-naturedly at the realization that not even post-explosion tinnitus can get rid of the drums.

A Toclafane swoops toward the destroyed bay windows and shortly bursts into flames before dropping onto the deck, then rolling away like a flaming football. An assortment of humans dangling from ropes hits the flight deck and sprints toward him, which can’t be good news for anyone. With great difficulty, the Master gets to his feet and takes three of them down with his screwdriver, two dead and one mortally wounded in three quick shots. He backs toward the door of the impact chamber, where Lucy is standing, screaming for him to hurry; his fourth shot misses. His fifth shot meanders along the ceiling before catching one of them in the shoulder. Why is it so hard to aim? He shakes his aching head to clear it, but by the time he lines up another shot, one of the few surviving members of the Cosmic SWAT Team from Hell has grabbed his wrist and knocked the screwdriver out of his hand, then wrestled him to the floor. The Master punches him in the crotch and is released immediately, free to fumble for his screwdriver. It’s not very far away. It shouldn’t be this hard to grab it.

Oh. Now there are _two_ screwdrivers. That’s not helpful at all.

Two identical booted feet drop down on his identical fumbling left hands, and there’s a sickening sensation of bone going places it isn’t supposed to before the pain arrives behind it. “Ow,” the Master says again.

He’s hauled to his feet. His elbow finds a nearby gut, and then the butt of a nearby rifle finds his face.


	6. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor makes the Master a present.

“He’s not angry,” Ashton says patiently. “He’s just very busy.”

“Why did he hurt Lucy?”

“He didn’t,” Ashton replies. “There was an accident in the lab and some glass broke. Lucy is perfectly fine, but the Master might be busy for a little bit, that’s all. Just come on out to dinner.”

“No,” the Doctor says, backing a little further into the corner. It’s very hard to breathe under here, for some reason. There’s a vent set into the wall, blowing cool air on him; he turns toward it, trying to breathe, but it doesn’t seem to help. “He’s angry at Lucy and he’ll be angry at me, and I’m not coming out.”

“He’s not angry at either of you, Doctor. What could possibly make you think that?”

The Doctor would reply, but he honestly doesn’t know the answer.

The Doctor sees Lucy’s red heels before he sees her properly, at least until she takes a knee and peers under the bed. “What on earth are you doing under there, you silly thing?” she chides. Her tone is quite gentle, but the Doctor shies away a bit; the left side of her face is sprayed with little red marks where the skin had only just been healed.

“Is the Master angry?” the Doctor asks quietly.

“Why should he be angry?” Lucy replies. “It was just a little accident, that’s all. I’m perfectly all right.” She smiles encouragingly at him. “Now come in to dinner, and stop clutching that vent. You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Common viruses can’t tolerate the artron content of my bloodstream,” the Doctor says. Lucy thinks it’s funny, but he can’t imagine why. He can’t help but smile a bit, though, and unfolds himself from his position under the bed in the sick bay. He suddenly feels enormously silly. His hearts are racing like he’s just run a marathon, and everything else feels filled with helium. There are bright pink lines in his fingers where they had wrapped around the slats of the vent in the wall. How very, very silly that is. Of course the Master wouldn’t be angry. It was just an accident. Of course. If he had punished Lucy, he would have said so, and no one would dare lie and call it an accident. And, obviously, Lucy had never done anything to be punished for in the first place. And he never, _ever_ punishes his pets if they don’t do something wrong.

Right?

 

The Doctor can’t sense the Master at all when he leaves their home. The impact chamber pretty well blocks most signals that try to enter, including the thready telepathic connection that forms when two Time Lords live near each other for extended periods of time. There’s no direct communication through it, just a sort of thrumming presence, a murmured “I’m here” as they go about their business. Its absence unnerves the Doctor rather more than usual. There also seems to be a slightly tense atmosphere about the dinner table. Thankfully, however, Lucian is absent, despite the presence of nearly everyone else. Who’s missing? There’s Allison, her brown eyes sparkling as she chats happily with Lucy. Emma, who seems slightly less jumpy when the Master’s not nearby, is chewing contentedly next to Callum and apparently pretending to be invisible. Sarah’s passing the rolls to Ashton, which means August is the missing one.

“What’s August up to?” the Doctor asks Callum.

“She’s in the White Room with Lucian,” Callum replies. “I’ll be very surprised if he comes out alive this time, he broke rule number two.”

The Doctor pauses mid-bite; Ashton emits a low whistle. “He’ll be dead in a week at this rate,” he says, causing Emma to attempt to merge with her seat on a molecular level. “What did he say?”

Lucy purses her lips disapprovingly, rearranging her mashed potatoes. “I don’t think it bears repeating.”

“That bad?” Allison says, shoveling a huge piece of steak in her mouth, enraptured. She does love a spot of gossip.

“Can you even chew that?” Ashton asks, with something like wonder. Allison nods, her jaw working furiously.

Emma tugs gently on Callum’s sleeve. “W-which one is number two?” she asks, her voice nearly a whisper.

“Never speak ill of the Master,” Callum replies. “Do you remember rule number one?”

Emma nods. “Al-al-al-always d-do as the M-m-master says,” she says, stumbling rather more than usual over the syllables.

“I’ve always thought that was the easiest one,” Ashton says, chuckling, to general agreement.

“How has Emma been, Callum?” Lucy queries.

“Much better, actually.” Callum smiles at Emma, who continues eating demurely. “I think she’s starting to get the rhythm of things around here. Aren’t you, dear?”

Emma visibly panics at being addressed directly for a moment before nodding hastily and bending lower over her food, as though afraid they’ll take it away at a moment’s notice.

“Everyone seems really hungry today,” the Doctor notes absently.

“We need to eat in order to live,” Ashton replies dryly.

“It just seems strange because you haven’t been here in a while.” Allison cuts herself another huge slice of steak. “The Master says you haven’t been feeling well. Are you all right?”

“I’m always all right.” The Doctor looks down at his plate. “Where is the Master, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be back by now?”

“His meeting with the commander is taking longer than expected, so he may be busy for a while,” Lucy responds.

“What commander? Commander who?” the Doctor asks.

“Oh, something unpronounceable, as usual,” is Lucy’s answer. “He’s from the Bracatolian Space.”

Ashton frowns. “Haven’t we finished with that lot? I think he’d just done conquering them when he bought me.”

“Their fleet supplements the Master’s Toclafane now,” the Doctor explains. “I never know what they’re up to, though.”

“It’s not our place to know,” Callum reminds him, getting a second helping of potatoes. “Except for Lucy, of course.” Callum smiles at her, and she returns it warmly. Emma, who’s cleaned her plate, tugs on Callum’s sleeve again, wondering if she’s allowed to have seconds, as well. (She is.)

“It hasn’t gone wrong, has it?” the Doctor asks Lucy. “The meeting, I mean. Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” Lucy replies, smiling, but something about her tone doesn’t sit well with the Doctor.

 

The Doctor keeps looking at the door.

During mealtimes, or passing by it during his duties, he slows to a halt and stares at it before someone gently reminds him to resume what he was doing. If he has free time when he’s not confined to the sick bay, he sits in one of the chairs pushed up against the wall in the foyer and pretends to read, watching the door, waiting for the Master to come home.

 

_His feet seem so heavy as he sprints up the staircase. He needs to go upstairs. The Master is upstairs. Only the stairs don’t seem to be working properly; each time he gets to the top of the flight, he ends up in the basement again. He can’t stay in the basement. The Master is upstairs. Maybe there’s a different staircase. He goes down the stairs instead, but instead of the basement, there’s only the spare room. Lucian is waiting for him next to the broken bed._

_“Came looking for you,” he says. “Orders. The Master asked me to soften you up for tonight. Tenderize you.”_

_The Doctor spins around and hurtles back up the stairs again, running even faster when he hears Lucian’s heavy footfalls behind him. “Unless you’re trying to avoid following the Master’s order? What would he think of that, I wonder?”_

_The staircase is pulled out from under the Doctor’s feet, and he falls heavily on the floor. Electricity sparks across his skin and he scrambles away, only to hit the floor again when he’s kicked over. A knee on his chest. A rubber ball gag is forced into his mouth, fastened at the back of his head. With a scream of terror, the Doctor realizes he’s in the electro room in the basement, being dragged to a set of steel stocks in the center of the room. He hears the hum of the mains as they switch on, ready to deliver a current wherever it’s needed._

_He’s locked into the stocks, which hold fast no matter how hard he tries to pull out of them, no matter how much he begs the Master not to hurt him. He sees why when his tormentor comes around in front of him and, coldly, methodically, begins attaching electrodes to his arms and shoulders. It isn’t the Master at all. It’s Lucian._

August opens the door to the sick bay and finds the Doctor sitting bolt-upright in bed, panting, staring at the wall opposite with a frighteningly blank expression.

“Doctor?” she asks, and he startles, looks at her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m always all right,” he replies numbly. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s enormously tired. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight AM,” August replies. “Did you sleep well?”

“I don’t think so,” he says with a frown. He remembers lying awake for a long while. “Ah, well. I’m awake now, aren’t I? Do you need help with anything?”

August suggests he help with breakfast, and he does so happily. No one’s been assigned to cook today, so they fend for themselves, and the kitchen is soon bustling with hungry people in need of sustenance. Emma, as it turns out, has never cooked before, so the Doctor helps her fry an egg and put it on a piece of toast with cheese. She grins and chats happily the whole time, like she’s discovered a new side of life that has, for the moment, made everything else worthwhile.

When everyone has acquired something to eat, they all end up at the table, like dust settling after a whirlwind. The Doctor can’t see the door from this seat—he’s between Lucy and Emma today—but he can’t help but be very aware that the change in seating is a result of the Master’s continued absence. Emma talks to him enough about cooking that he can’t simply stare at the empty seat at the head of the table, however, so he ends up finishing breakfast with a minimum of intervention from the corkscrew living in his chest.

 

The Doctor spends the day with Callum, Emma, and Sarah cleaning the bookshelves in the common area on the second floor. Emma and Sarah are getting along famously, Sarah telling Emma about cooking, Emma talking about the weather on her home planet, which fascinates Sarah, who was born on a ship and has lived on them all her life. Callum directs their cleaning operation, and, being a fastidiously neat person, checks their cleaning work to make sure it’s up to the Master’s standards. The Doctor simply listens and dusts and replaces books tidily on their shelves and is happy for the distraction. This works until he finds a book that makes his hands numb, makes his mind whirl.

There was a time, when he’d started to give in and do as the Master asked, where he wasn’t very happy about it. It all seems very silly now, but it felt wrong, back then, to do as the Master said. As a result of this, he was in quite a lot of pain most of the time. The Master had been teaching him to sit when ordered to. It had been hours before he’d obeyed, and most of his body had been completely covered in welts from a springy metal switch the Master had been using to train him. When it was finally over, he’d curled up in an armchair in the common area, trying not to think about how much he hurt, trying not to think about the feeling of something small breaking inside him and falling away as he sat at the Master’s feet. At least, that had been the plan, until the Master handed him the book. “You were good today,” he’d said, smiling, petting the Doctor a bit. “From now on, you’re allowed to read these books in your spare time. Treat them gently, mind you. I don’t want you getting crumbs in the spine and mussing up the margins.” Even then, the leather of his glove had felt nice on the back of the Doctor’s neck.

“Doctor?”

He jumps a bit, looks up at Callum, then down at the book’s cover. “C,” he says. “For Christie. Agatha.” He offers a weak smile and hands the book over. Callum takes it from his shaking hand and settles it neatly on its shelf, with the rest of the “C”s.

 

He’s becoming increasingly reluctant to sleep. Lucian continues to hunt him relentlessly in his dreams, even if he’s been behaving too badly in the Master’s absence to be upstairs much. The Master has been gone for seven days. The Doctor’s beginning to forget what it was like before he was punished, when he saw the Master every morning when he awoke and every night before he went to sleep. He’s forgetting the safety of his closet, the buzz of their telepathic connection, the way the Master’s scent clung to everything in his bedroom, and he’s terrified by how quickly he’s losing it all. The Doctor’s coping methods kept him alive for all these years in this ( _not horrifying, it isn’t horrifying, it’s really not too bad, really it isn’t_ ) existence, but he’s beginning to realize how very fragile they are. It’s difficult to focus on pleasing the Master when there is no Master here to please.

Lucian finally makes it back upstairs on the eighth day. He limps as he walks, and his clothes barely conceal the fact that he has been almost entirely covered in bandages, most likely as a result of his time in the White Room. He’s not allowed to eat in the kitchen, and probably won’t be for some time, but it makes the Doctor nervous nonetheless. When he finishes dinner, therefore, he makes every effort to be invisible as he passes Lucian in the foyer on his way up the stairs.

“Evening,” Lucian says.

“You’re not allowed to talk,” the Doctor says tightly, continuing up the stairs.

Lucian snorts derisively. “Make me stop, then.”

“Shut up, Lucian,” the Doctor snaps.

“Ooh, tetchy,” Lucian responds. “You’d think that stick up your arse would have fallen out by now, considering how many people get to fuck you. Or is _that_ it? Missing your Master? He’s not really in a meeting, you know, Doctor. He’s just so sick of seeing your pathetic face that he—”

Ashton strides up from the kitchen and punches Lucian in the face, taking him by surprise and sending him sprawling on the floor, whereupon Ashton kicks him in the ribs, twice, hard. Lucian recovers enough to start hitting back, and the Doctor shrinks against the wall of the staircase, terrified, as they start to _fight_. What should simply be a disagreement between two slaves is a whirlwind of fists and elbows and knees, bared teeth and shouting. This is no punishment, where one has clear control over the other. This is two grown men determined to beat one another senseless. The Doctor doesn’t know how to respond, and freezes, watching, as delicate little Callum sprints into the fray, landing a few hits to Lucian’s back and shoulders before Lucian shoves Ashton away, spins around, and floors Callum with a single blow to the jaw. Emma shrieks from the kitchen; Lucy, looking angrier than the Doctor has ever seen her, nods to August. She and Allison head for Lucian, as well, and August’s knee collides with the side of Lucian’s head just as he’s preparing to hit the unconscious Callum again. Allison, however, has been pulled away by Lucy’s hand on her collar. Allison doesn’t look happy about it, but her help isn’t needed by this point, as August has Lucian on his knees, arms behind his back, helpless to stop Ashton from raining blows down on him. By the time Lucian’s stopped trying to fight back and Ashton stops hitting him, he’s barely recognizable, his face is so swollen and bruised. Ashton’s cut lip and black eye are overshadowed by his hands, which are developing bruises of their own, and are bleeding in places from their impacts with Lucian’s teeth.

August releases Lucian, who collapses to the floor, wheezing. The Doctor and Ashton take a dazed, pained Callum to the sick bay while August and Lucy determine what to do with Lucian. The Doctor scans Callum, who has a broken jaw and is crying quietly, mouth hanging open slightly. Callum has never been punished; the Master doesn’t break bones when he plays, so he’s not at all accustomed to this level of pain.

“It’s all right, Callum,” the Doctor says, attempting an encouraging smile. “The bones are where you left them, so you don’t need surgery or anything. It’s more of a crack than a break, really.” He picks up August’s magic wand and sets it to repair bone fractures. “Close your mouth, all right? It hurts now, but it will help the break heal better.”

Callum nods, closes his mouth, and immediately opens it again. “Hurts,” he whimpers, fresh tears streaking down his face.

“I know,” the Doctor says sympathetically. “You don’t need to close really hard, just so your teeth touch.”

Callum closes his mouth again, trembling with pain. He’s surprisingly quiet as the Doctor heals the break, working his jaw experimentally and smiling.

“Thanks,” he says, wiping the tears off of his face with a faint air of embarrassment.

“Don’t mention it,” the Doctor answers, bouncing on his heels. He likes using the magic wand; it reminds him pleasantly of his sonic screwdriver. “You might have some bruises, but that’s the only serious damage he did.”

“I wonder if he realizes how many rules he’s broken,” Callum says thoughtfully.

Ashton grins. “Maybe you should list them somewhere Lucy can hear,” he suggests. “The Master might not be around, and the Doctor can’t give orders, but _she_ can sure punish him.”

Callum looks at the Doctor uncertainly. “Wouldn’t that be like telling her what to do?”

“Ashton’s right, you know the rules better than everyone but the Master,” the Doctor says. “If he’s done things wrong, he should be punished. It’s the rules.”

“That’s true,” Callum says, considering it with a little frown before beaming and deciding aloud, “I’m going to talk to Lucy.” Before either the Doctor or Ashton can say anything, he’s bounded out of the sick bay and down the hall.

“He’s adorable,” Ashton says fondly.

“He is,” the Doctor agrees. After a moment, the little monster that had started to writhe in his gut rears its head, and he blurts out, “Is the Master really in a meeting? Because he’s never been gone so long before, and he hasn’t even come back in to eat, and now Lucian’s just said… and I’m…” He breaks off; he wants to say that he’s worried, but things like that don’t matter here.

“I’ve no idea,” Ashton replies, looking mildly surprised. “I do know it’s got nothing to do with you, though. Lucian’s an idiot.”

The Doctor almost laughs aloud. “We’re not supposed to speak ill of each other,” he reminds him.

“True.”

The Doctor feels a little thrill run through him. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He can get away with about one small act of disobedience a year. Ashton is kind, so the Doctor’s happy to give it to him.

 

The Master still hasn’t come back. He’s been gone ten days. The Doctor has taken to sitting, in turns, in the foyer, next to the door, and on the steps outside the Master’s bedroom. Lucy, when she isn’t handing out their assignments, eating, or sleeping, is in the Master’s outer office. The Doctor isn’t allowed in there. He’s often wondered why, since anything the Master considers too sensitive for the eyes of his slaves is locked away behind a second door, isomorphically tuned to the Master and riddled with defensive measures. Maybe he thinks the Doctor could get past it. The Doctor can’t help but chuckle a little at the thought. Even if he could, he wouldn’t, no matter how curious he is about what’s beyond the door.

He closes his eyes, resting his head against the Master’s bedroom door. He’s allowed to be here. It’s not breaking the rules as long as he doesn’t try to get inside. He can’t have the Master now, but he thinks about him, imagining that he hears the front door opening, _bangbangbangbangbangbang_.

 

_The Master’s footsteps on the stairs, to the beat of a jaunty tune, the Master feeling satisfied about a job well-done. What have we here? he’d say, pull the Doctor to his feet, take him inside. They’d play. The Master would tease the Doctor mercilessly with the plug he’d been wearing all day, fuck him with it, before removing it entirely and replacing it with his cock, taking him for hours, never stopping, never faltering, pinning him down, hands stroking and touching, and the Doctor knows that when it’s over, he’ll clamber into his closet, say goodnight, and the Master will bring his lips to the Doctor’s, and he won’t stop, won’t ever stop, the world will be softness and kisses and safety forever, the Master’s come in his mouth, the ache of his cock trying to escape its cage, an onslaught of sensation, of—_

 

“Doctor?”

He startles awake, and finds Lucy leaning over him. “Lucy, where’s the Master?” he says, looking around for him. “I thought… I could have sworn he was here.” But the Master isn’t here.

Lucy smiles. “He’ll be home soon,” she says.

The Doctor’s hearts leap, and he resists an urge to hug her. “He will?”

“Yes. You should be rested when he arrives, don’t you think?”

The Doctor nods. “Of course. Good idea.” He stands, following her downstairs. “He’ll be here tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow morning, or afternoon, at the latest.”

“We can have lunch!” the Doctor says happily. “Sarah can cook, he likes her cooking, and we can tell him how bad Lucian’s been while he was gone. He won’t like that at all. Maybe he’ll be tired. Do you think he’ll be tired? He might need to rest.”

Lucy laughs, holding up her hands to stem the tide of the Doctor’s enthusiasm. “One thing at a time, Doctor,” she chuckles, as they reach the bottom of the stairs and round the corner, heading down the hallway to the sick bay. “Go to sleep. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

For once, his inability to fall asleep has nothing to do with his fear of his nightmares, but his eagerness for his Master’s return. Eventually, though, he drifts away, dreaming of kisses and careworn leather.

 

The Master’s voice.

The Doctor sits up, hops out of bed, walks to the door between the sick bay and August’s room. It’s locked, but he can hear the Master on the other side, talking to someone. He presses his ear to the keyhole and listens. His face starts to hurt, he’s smiling so widely.

“No, really, it’s fine. It’s _fine_ , stop messing with it. Is he still asleep?”

“I think so.” Lucy. “Shall I check on him?”

“No, that’s all right. I didn’t see Lucian.”

“He behaved rather badly while you were gone.”

“Oh? What did he do?”

“I can’t remember them all, but Callum made a list. He’s in the White Room.”

“Is everyone else all right?”

“Yes, Master. The Doctor has been behaving strangely, though. I think he misses you.”

The Master chuckles. “I suppose I’ll have to go and see him, then.”

The Doctor suppresses a shout of glee, confining himself to a much quieter gasp of delight. The Master. The Master is coming. Master. _Master._ The Master is back. He’s coming to see the Doctor. He nearly cries, he’s so happy. And there it is, that buzz, the hum of their telepathic connection. The Master is back.

He always comes back.

 

The Master’s a bit stiff. His abductors kept him healthy enough, saving him for interrogation later, but they weren’t exactly kind, either. Once his injuries have been tended to, he stands and stretches, grunting as a few vertebrae pop in his back. All but one of his kidnappers had been killed during his recovery; the last is being interrogated, quite thoroughly, by a team the Master put together for specifically that purpose. He’ll hear from them later.

Now, though, it’s time to check on his favorite slave. He crosses the room to the door, which clicks open at a touch of the handle, and enters the room quietly, in case the Doctor is still asleep. He isn’t. He’s lying awake in bed, curled up under a sheet. Even considering his normal state, he looks a bit pale. He smiles, though, when the Master enters. “Good morning, Master,” he says, squirming a little in his excitement.

The Master laughs. “Hello, Doctor. Rumor has it you’ve missed me.”

“Yes, Master. But you’re back. You came back.” He sounds slightly faint.

“I always come back,” the Master reminds him, and the Doctor positively beams. “Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m always all right. Did everything go well? You were gone for a long time.”

The Master chuckles, draws up a chair, and sits next to him. The Doctor fidgets some more, and the Master can’t resist the impulse to pet him a little, watches him freeze, eyes half-closing, like he’s about to fall asleep. “Did Lucy tell you where I was?” the Master asks.

“Said you were in a meeting. Not m’place to ask. Missed you so much.” The Doctor’s eyes are fully closed now, dark lashes against pale cheeks. The Master will never say so aloud, but he’s missed his Doctor, too. He thinks about explaining why he was gone so long, that he was supposed to be in a meeting but it went wrong, he was captured, and they were taking him to be interrogated by none other than Captain Jack Harkness. Quite a feat, that, as the Master had thrown dear old Handsome Jack into a sun the last time they’d seen one another. “Made you a present,” the Doctor says sleepily, with a shy little smile that makes the Master want to strap him down and make him scream.

“Oh?” he says, eyebrows raised. “That’s very kind of you. What is it?”

“You said, long time ago, you like it when I bleed,” the Doctor answers quietly, and fusses a bit with his sheets. Only now does the Master realize that they’ve been stained with blood. The sight of it sends a chill from his hearts to his skin to his bones, settling in them where there should be marrow. “Tried to keep it going, so you could watch, but it stopped. Sorry.” He frees his arms at last from the sheets wrapped around them and presents them to his Master like an offering, a blood sacrifice, and that’s exactly what it is.

A neat line has been drawn across each of the Doctor’s forearms, porcelain skin soaked with the rich red that runs all down his front, soaking his shirt, the sheets around him. “Did it myself,” he murmurs, a hint of pride in his voice. “For you to have. Do you like it?”

All desire he might have had to tell the Doctor where he’d been evaporates as he struggles to find the words, to tell him which rule he’d broken, tell him he must never, ever, _ever_ do it again. The trouble is, the Master can’t think which one it is. He’s too distracted by the blood, the smell of it, metallic and heavy in the air now that the Doctor has let it loose. The Doctor, pale and fragile, delicate in a way the Master has never seen him before. There’s so much blood, _so much_ , more than the Master would ever have dared take from him. It’s a miracle he’s alive, let alone conscious. “It’s a very generous gift,” the Master says. He mustn’t upset the Doctor, not in this state. “Thank you.”

The Doctor takes a deep, shuddering breath that catches a few times in his chest before it finally escapes. “You’re welcome, Master.” He smiles, wider, nearly showing teeth, and seems to deflate, his arms dropping to the bedspread, too much red in all the white and cream. His eyes drift closed.

“Doctor?” the Master says, and he shakes himself a little, opens his eyes again, with a little sigh that carries the Master’s name on it. “It was very good of you to make me a present, but you’re not to do it anymore, do you understand?”

The Doctor’s face falls, tears welling instantly in his eyes. What little heat remains in the Master’s body flees before them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Master, please don’t be angry. I thought you’d like it. You like when I bleed.”

“Hush, now, no tears, remember?” the Master says, mustering up a smile, stroking the Doctor’s cheek. “Whose are you?”

“Yours, Master, always yours. Always.”

“I know you are. It was very… kind… of you, to make me this gift, but it’s not necessary. You’re mine, and that means that when I want your blood, _if_ I want it, I will get it from you. All right? No more gifts.”

The Doctor nods slowly. “’m sorry, Master,” he whispers.

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Master says. “I’m going to get August now, and we’re going to fix you up, and then I want you to rest.”

“Yes, Master.”

The Master doesn’t want to leave him, not in here, alone, where he can hurt himself even more. But he has to. He stands, tucks the Doctor’s bloodied arms against his chest, promises he’ll be right back. He sends August in first, so she won’t see as he swallows down the chill that had set in him when he saw the Doctor’s slashed arms, forces back the tears.

 

The Doctor doesn’t understand how it could all have gone so wrong. The Master was supposed to be happy, was supposed to smile, to touch him. They were supposed to play. The Master was supposed to take him upstairs, let him have his closet again, a reward for the Doctor’s sacrifice, a goodnight kiss as a sign of returned affections. And now, now, his Master disapproves. No more gifts. How can he redeem himself now? The Master leaves him alone, even though he’s with August when he drifts off into an uneasy sleep, moved into a different bed with cleaner sheets, the blood washed away from his skin, the only remnants of his present to the Master a pair of bright pink lines across his forearms that he’d drawn with a scalpel.

No more gifts.

The Master will take what he wants from the Doctor.

The Doctor is alone.

The Master does not want him.


	7. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor isn't feeling so well.

Despite the Doctor’s insistence that he would be fine on his own, he is now accompanied by someone at all times. They take it in shifts. August wakes him up in the morning for breakfast and takes him to use the loo, then across the hall and two doors down to the water play room for a shower. The lukewarm water doesn’t help the cold he seems to feel at all times, but at least he’s clean. They never play, though, and he hasn’t been milked recently, either. What’s more, the Master has decided he needs a break from his encasement, so he’s truly naked, with no comforting reminders of the Master’s favor to hold onto. It takes him a few days to stop jumping whenever his soft cock brushes against the insides of his trousers.

After he’s washed, August escorts him upstairs to the common area, where he works on that same tired schematic. Thankfully, the Master always plans such things far in advance, so the Doctor doesn’t need to worry about not getting it done in time. It was nearly finished, anyway, and he finishes it in just over a week. It was a magnificent distraction, but afterward, he’s confined to reading.

Every book seems to ignite some memory in him, the recollection of some painful punishment or a delightful reward. An evening the Doctor spent writhing on a fucking machine, the Master watching when he wasn’t thumbing idly through a copy of _The Art of War_. Lucy placing _The Thief Lord_ next to him as he whimpered in bed, telling him to read to distract himself from the pain after the first time the Master fisted him.

There’s only one book he refuses to touch or even look at. He’s not allowed to know where his TARDIS is, and to make it nigh impossible for the Doctor to tell, the Master severed their symbiotic connection. The Doctor has vague memories of wandering disconsolately around the Master’s rooms, looking for a missing piece of himself under beds and between couch cushions and in the cupboards under the kitchen sink. When the Master found him, he led him into the common area, wiped his wet face with a handkerchief, and pressed a book into his hands. “She’s safe. That’s all you need to know. No tears, now,” he’d said. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. Here. Read.” _The Time Machine_ , by H.G. Wells. The Doctor skips over it automatically.

Callum takes him downstairs for lunch, where he, Sarah, and Lucy conspire to make him eat, even though he’s still full from breakfast. Where he goes after that depends on the schedule of the day. He usually ends up with whoever’s task is the biggest, and as a result, he finds himself cleaning a lot more than usual. He doesn’t mind. It’s easy to focus on.

After that, it’s dinnertime. Sometimes, the Master eats with them, which the Doctor always enjoys, though he’s frequently distracted by the way the Master holds his knife and fork (the Doctor is starting to wonder whether he bathes and sleeps with his gloves on), or the shapes his mouth makes as he chews, or the sound of his voice as he says the Doctor’s name, or—wait, hang on.

“Doctor? Are you listening?”

“Master?” he says quickly, with a start. Oh, please, please don’t let the Master be mad…

“I said, is there something wrong? You aren’t eating.”

“Oh,” he says, surprised, looking down at his plate. “I forgot.”

To his relief, the Master laughs. “You forgot you were eating?”

The Doctor nods, flushing slightly with embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“I forgive you,” Sarah says, with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s probably my fault, anyway. There’s only so much I can do without any coriander.”

“Is that like a Klingon?” Allison asks.

“It’s a herb.” It’s the Master who answers. As none of them have ever seen him cook for himself, they are slightly taken aback. The Master ignores them all in favor of telling the Doctor that he should eat, that it will make him feel better.

“Yes, Master.” The Doctor does so. The food is good, despite the absence of coriander, and the Doctor thinks maybe, just maybe, he feels a teensy bit better after he’s eaten.

After dinner, the Master returns upstairs to work, and Ashton takes the Doctor first to the loo, then to the sick bay for the night. Ashton is still there when the Doctor falls at last into a fitful sleep, but August wakes him up, and it begins again.

This routine makes the days blend together, one into the next, the Doctor spending his waking hours distracting himself and his sleeping hours running, running, always running. Lucian has taken to chasing him up the staircase in his dreams, and if he stops—

No time to think about that. Stick to the routine. One day into the next into the next, until it’s been almost a fortnight since the Master returned from his meeting. The Doctor is convinced it didn’t go well, but it’s not his place to ask, so he says nothing.

His routine goes uninterrupted until day thirteen. That night, Lucian catches up to him on the stairs and drags him down, down, repeating those familiar lines, and the Master lets Lucian hurt him again. Only this time, when he wakes up, it’s not August telling him it’s time for breakfast. It’s Ashton, pinning him down, saying something over and over. The Doctor has no interest in his words, but he’s going to be hurt, Ashton will hurt him, and he needs to see if the Master says that’s okay.

“I want to check with Lucy,” he whines, not like a spoiled child, but like a wounded animal, a high, tremulous plea coming from the back of his throat. “Let me go. I want to check with Lucy.” He struggles, but Ashton has all the leverage, and the Doctor is caught between him and the floor. What’s he doing on the floor? Why is it spinning like that?

“Doctor,” Ashton says urgently. “Hey. Just listen to me. You need to breathe.”

“Lemme go.” He twists his arms painfully and they slip out of Ashton’s grip, allowing him to roll over and scramble away. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it doesn’t much matter, as Lucian gets a hold of him again, this time in the form of a bear hug, dragging him back, going to hurt him. “Want to check with Lucy,” the Doctor says, kicking his feet, scrabbling against the floor, but without any result.

“I called her,” Lucian says with Ashton’s voice. “She’s coming. It’s all right. You need to _breathe._ ”

The Doctor does, gasps for air, and on the exhale he screams wordlessly, too scared to remain quiet. He squeezes his eyes shut, screams again, fighting Lucian. He wants to check with Lucy, his body aches like he’s been beaten, Lucian’s holding him too tightly, his throat is raw, and suddenly, there she is.

“Doctor, it’s all right. Hush, now, hush. You’re going to wake the whole ship.”

“Lucy,” the Doctor says, panting, surging toward her, but Lucian’s still trapping him. “Did the Master say it’s okay? I’ll be good, promise. I just need to know first.”

“Doctor. Listen to me.” She’s speaking very slowly for some reason. “You’ve had a nightmare, and you fell out of bed. You’re having a panic attack. You need to—”

“But is he allowed? He’s gonna hurt me, is he allowed? It doesn’t hurt if the Master says it’s okay.”

“Ashton isn’t going to hurt you,” Lucy says.

“Not worried about Ashton,” the Doctor answers.

“Who are you worried about?”

“Him,” the Doctor says, throwing his head back to indicate Lucian, holding him down.

Lucy’s anxious face turns to a picture of confusion. “Doctor, that _is_ Ashton,” she says, which makes no sense at all, and the world is spinning faster and faster and faster and he can’t breathe and he wants the Master, _Master, Master, don’t, please, I’ll be good, Master, please, don’t hurt me_ , and everything breaks down into nonsense, even the air in his lungs.

 

When he wakes, the air makes sense again. It feels like he’s been asleep for a while, but everything looks just the same, except that Lucy has a glass of water now, and she holds it to his lips. The door is different, too. It’s open, and August is standing there. She’s not supposed to look so nervous. It doesn’t suit her.

Lucian is gone, but Ashton is here again, and he’s holding the Doctor, which is nice, but probably against the rules. “You allowed to do that?” he asks. His mouth doesn’t seem to want to form words.

“Yep,” Ashton says, but doesn’t give any further explanation. “You okay?”

“I’m always all right,” the Doctor repeats, for the umpteenth time. He is, however, exhausted. “Tired.”

“Maybe you should go to sleep,” Lucy suggests quietly. “Close your eyes.”

He does so, sighing happily. It feels so _good_ to be held, and Ashton is so warm, his hands are so gentle, rubbing little circles on the Doctor’s chest. The Doctor lets his head fall back, onto Ashton’s shoulder, smiling when the stubble under Ashton’s jaw tickles his cheek.

“All right, then?” Ashton murmurs.

The Doctor nods, and falls asleep before he can say, once again, that he’s always all right.

 

He’s back in bed, and August is shaking his shoulder gently. “Wakey wakey,” she says, smiling when he opens his eyes. “Time to face the day.”

He doesn’t want to face the day. He’s even more tired than usual. He can’t say as much, though, so he settles for a quiet sigh before he rubs the grit out of his eyes and sits up.

Allison and Lucy are already in the water play room when the Doctor gets there. They aren’t showering, though, they’re playing; Allison’s cuffed between some of the deliberately-exposed pipes lining the walls, arms and legs spread, Lucy’s mouth at one breast and her hand at the other. One of the room’s many massaging showerheads is working its magic on Allison’s pussy, and the Doctor knows by the heated humidity of the room that the water is piping hot. If he looks close enough, he can see steam rising from the water as it escapes the faucet.

“It’s not a spectator sport,” August says.

The Doctor feels a twinge of annoyance. “I’m allowed to watch,” he reminds her. “Can you make the water colder, though? I don’t want to… er…”

“Of course.”

The Doctor strips, tossing his clothes in the hamper by the door, not bothering with his little striptease. That particular show is only for the Master. August has certainly obliged about the water; it’s ice-cold when he steps under the spray.

As he washes, he watches. Lucy has always been fond of Allison, ever since the Master brought her home. They do seem to rather like one another, now the Doctor thinks of it. All of the Master’s slaves become enthusiastically accepting of their playtime eventually, and Allison is no exception. Today, however, she seems even more enthusiastic than usual, and in a most unusual way. Her whole body is arched into one spot, but it isn’t centered on the hot water massaging her clit, it’s centered on Lucy’s mouth as she sucks and nibbles at her breast.

Odd, that. Now and then, her hips wriggle slightly, but the goal of her every movement seems to be coaxing more pleasure out of Lucy’s mouth, pushing herself diagonally into Lucy’s touch. Lucy looks happy, too. Her eyes are closed, her lips smiling into Allison’s skin.

The Doctor reaches for the shampoo. Lucy breaks away, causing Allison to emit a plaintive whimper; Lucy strokes the skin over her abdomen, just once, then bends down to get something. The Doctor flushes bright red, watching Lucy tighten the strap-on around her waist, positioning the base of the false cock over her clit so she’ll be rubbed as she fucks. Allison squirms, moans this time, and Lucy wastes no time in fucking her, their bodies pressed close together under the deluge of hot water. The Doctor looks away abruptly, concentrates on his hygiene. It hurts to see them together, and he can’t think why. He doesn’t see the other slaves and their antics as much as he used to, but it’s common enough. Why should it bother him now?

It niggles at him all through the day. It wasn’t violent, so that can’t be it. He thinks for a bit. No, no, he’s sure, it really wasn’t violent. Lucy was vigorous, was passionate, rough, even, but she wasn’t violent. He’d seen that often enough. And it didn’t actually start to hurt him until they started to _fuck_ , Lucy on tiptoes driving up into her, legs bent, arms wrapped around her, clawing at her back, mouth moving over her neck and shoulder; Allison, meeting Lucy’s thrusts as she was able, her head thrown back, eyes closed, moans flowing from her mouth like the water over her skin.

It’s not until the Doctor goes to sleep that he realizes what it was. In two hundred years, quite some time of which the Master has spent playing with him (though not, as the hateful voice in the back of his mind likes to remind him, in recent days), the Doctor can’t remember a single instance of being in the Master’s arms. In his clutches, constantly. In his power, forevermore. He can remember pinned wrists, shackled ankles, knees in the small of his back. Days spent on leashes, the Master’s gloved hands on his cock, in his arse, painting him with handprints, _smack, smack, smack, smack_ ; these images come to him freely. The Master holds him captive. Try as he might, though, the Doctor can’t bring to mind any occasion where he was simply _held_.

 

“I remember that dress,” the Doctor says.

Sarah laughs and twirls on the spot, the intricately-patterned black skirt of it billowing out around her. “It’s new, Doctor. Lucy got it when she and the Master went to buy Emma.”

“Oh, really?” She stops twirling, letting him bend closer to examine it. The beaded needlework at the hem is, indeed, a different pattern, and the cut is a bit lower, but it is very similar. “Looks like the one Milla wore,” he says softly, fingering the hem.

“Who’s Milla?” Sarah asks, sitting by the washer and sorting piles of underpants.

“She was a slave, oh, fifty years ago now,” the Doctor answers, folding up one of Allison’s shirts, and trying not to think of the way Lucy held her so close. “She went catatonic.”

“Cata-what?”

“Catatonic. She never responded to anything. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t speak, nothing. She didn’t even jump when he hit her.” He’s quiet for a bit, remembering her. Her ancestors had been from South America, and she’d inherited their tan skin and a lustrous curtain of black hair. Her eyes, though, were blue-green, like the ocean in the sun.

“Were you… I mean, did you get along?”

The Doctor nods. “Oh, yeah. When she started… you know, going, the Master would let me… comfort her, I suppose. Try to bring her back. Even let me into her mind, and that’s...” He swallows the lump in his throat. “Anyway.”

“What was it like?” Sarah asks. “In her mind, I mean. Was she scared?”

The Doctor thinks about it. “No, not really, but she wasn’t happy, either,” he recalls. “It was like everything that happened was sticking to her, holding her, like a bug stuck in amber, and eventually, she just couldn’t move. It was too much.”

“She couldn’t move, or she didn’t want to?”

“I’ve no idea,” the Doctor said. “It wasn’t… well, she’d already stopped talking by then, and there’s only so much you can get from a psychic contact. It helps immensely for them to explain it to you, and she couldn’t.”

For the first time, Sarah sounds afraid. “Did she kill herself?”

“No,” the Doctor replies. “The Master declared her broken.”

“Oh. Were you there?”

He doesn’t reply. He was, but he doesn’t much feel like talking about it. Thick, shiny, obsidian-black hair falling messily over shoulders the color of coffee with milk, eyes blue as the seas of Earth, pupils dilated, fluttering shut and slowly opening again as she swayed forward, backward, forward again, and finally collapsed onto the table, like a marionette with the strings cut. It occurs to him that she’d looked so… _relieved_ , not happy, exactly, but glad it was over in a numb sort of way. “Must be nice,” he muses, not with feeling, but idly, like someone considering the perks of a new mattress. “Not to have to fight anymore, no more struggling, not worrying about what you want. No more punishments or expectations or anything. Just sleep. Letting go.” He doesn’t mention it, but he’s thinking of something else, too—a place Lucy told him about, an Earth legend called Heaven, where you’d go if you were good.

Sarah says nothing as he folds Lucy’s panties and tucks them in the basket, and he misses the worry on her face as she looks down at him.

 

Lucy hadn’t been planning on visiting him, despite what Sarah had said. She refused to believe that the Doctor would ever actually _give up_. When Ashton rang their room in the early hours of the morning to tell her the Doctor wasn’t sleeping, that idea was seriously challenged.

She rushes downstairs and finds Ashton sitting next to the Doctor’s bed, talking to him. The Doctor himself is sitting up, frowning deeply, but perks up a bit when he sees Lucy. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” she asks, moving to stand on Ashton’s other side.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Can’t sleep. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” Ashton replies, and says, to Lucy, “He won’t even let me turn out the lights.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not sleeping, am I?”

“Yes, you are,” Lucy says firmly, and flips the switches, leaving them all in darkness.

“Turn them back on!” His tone is surprisingly authoritative, but it’s thoroughly undercut by the hysterical pitch he rises to and the way he seems to shrink into himself.

Lucy does so, and he blinks in the sudden brightness, staring into the far corner of the room, transfixed. Lucy looks, but there’s nothing there. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. ‘m fine. Just not tired. Can I have something to read?”

“No,” Lucy responds. “Lie down.”

“I’m not tired,” he insists, heedless of the sluggishness of his movements, the slightly slurred quality to his words, his dark, sunken eyes.

“You know we won’t let you sleep in,” Lucy warns. He brushes that off, as well. “Do you want me to call the Master?”

“Yes,” the Doctor replies quietly, then, realizing what he’s just said, stifles a small noise and actually _hides_ under his sheet. “Sorry. SorrysorrysorryLucysorry. Wasn’t trying to be rude. It just slipped out, I’m sorry, Lucy, I’m sorry.”

“I believe you,” Lucy says, halting the tidal wave of apologies. She tugs on his sheet, harder when he doesn’t let go, until it slips through his fingers to reveal him curled up next to the headboard, looking up at her with wide, fearful eyes. It’s immensely disconcerting. The Master draws that expression from him, not her. “I can’t punish you, remember?”

“Are you going to tell the Master?” he asks tremulously, grasping for the sheet again, trying to hide.

“You know I have to.”

“Lucy, please, I didn’t mean to, I said sorry, please, he’ll get mad at me…” The Doctor babbles on for a bit more, never directly asking her to lie, just begging, again and again.

“Stop.”

He shuts up.

“I have to tell the Master, Doctor. It’s up to him whether he punishes you. Either way, he’ll want to see you tomorrow. Rest.”

He nods meekly, curling a little tighter around himself. Lucy gives him his sheet back and he clutches at it gratefully, pulling it tightly over himself, just his eyes and his shock of hair protruding over the top. It would be adorable if it weren’t so utterly unlike him.

It takes some coaxing before he closes his eyes, lets Ashton turn off the lights. When he does fall asleep at last, it’s fitful and restless, brief periods of deathly stillness punctuated by much longer ones of little frowns and panting breaths and small, convulsive movements with his hands, his legs. Lucy didn’t know people could move so much in their sleep, if he really _were_ asleep.

By the time he finally stills, August has come in to wake him. She’s always been a deep sleeper, and is surprised to find Lucy in the room with the two of them. At Lucy’s request, she asks the Master whether the Doctor’s allowed to sleep in today. On hearing about his restless night, the Master deigns to let him have some rest, instructing August to watch him so Ashton and Lucy could have a break.

The Doctor sleeps all the way through lunch, so late it’s nearly dinnertime when he awakes with a grunt of “Master?” and a bleary-eyed look around, followed by a disappointed little “Oh.” when he realizes the Master isn’t here.

 

By the time he’s up and about and has gone to the loo, it’s time for dinner. August says he’s fine, but he worries that he hasn’t showered. The Master isn’t at dinner, either, but he’s home. The Doctor can feel the connection humming, thrumming, calling him upstairs. He remembers waiting for the Master outside his office, following him up to bed, and has to bite back a whimper. August reminds him to eat, so he does.

Ashton and Lucy both accompany him back to the sick bay, the Doctor growing increasingly nervous at the Master’s absence. Lucy said he’d be here. Why isn’t he here?

He’s exhausted, so he doesn’t protest when they tell him to lie down and try to sleep. He finds it’s actually easier to drift away with the lights still on, and he flutters, floats, lands lightly into sleep.

Then he wakes up. He thinks there might have been a noise, but Ashton says there isn’t. Lucy and August have gone. He turns over and goes back to sleep.

Awake again. Ashton tuts at him. The Master still isn’t here. Lucy said he’d be here. Why isn’t he here?

He dozes for a while. He doesn’t know how long he spends drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, sometimes waking with a start for no apparent reason, sometimes sliding unhappily into the waking world to try to find a more comfortable position. He never can. Why isn’t he here?

Oh. There he is, looking down at the Doctor with a slight frown. The Doctor feels light and feathery; maybe he’s still asleep. That makes sense. He must be dreaming. The Master doesn’t want him, after all, so he can’t really be here.

“Ah. I was trying not to wake you up.”

“You didn’t wake me, Master,” the Doctor replies with a little smile. He’s obviously still dreaming. Silly Master.

“Are you tired?”

“No, Master. Can’t be. Sleeping now.”

The Master chuckles. “Doctor, you’ve woken up.”

What a nice thought, for the Master to be here. “Of course, Master,” the Doctor sighs, content to pretend, stirring a bit under the sheets to move closer to him. What a lovely dream. He can even catch the Master’s scent.

 

The Doctor looks exhausted. The Master knows he hasn’t been sleeping well, but it’s a bit different to see him live and in-person this way, his eyelids drooping over tired eyes, the way he’s curled up under the sheet making him look very small. He’s smiling a bit as he scoots closer to the edge of the bed, nearer to the Master, looking up at him shyly. “What are you smiling for?” the Master asks. As he finishes speaking, the Doctor’s placid expression changes to a worried one.

“’m sorry, Master. Shouldn’t have been so rude to Lucy.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” He cringes, hiding his face in his forearms. “You won’t be doing it again, will you?”

“No, Master, of course not. Never. Ever.” He stiffens, shivers lightly, anticipating a punishment of some kind. The Master lays a hand on his arm, lightly, and he jumps, peeks out from his elbows, with a confused whisper of, “Master?”

“Lucy said you realized your mistake and apologized immediately.”

“Yes, Master. Was that good?”

“It was very good,” the Master says, with a smile. “Very correct of you. It’s only a minor infraction, and you’ve said sorry, so I won’t be punishing you for that.” The Doctor thanks him breathlessly, despite the series of shuddering gasps of air he takes as he speaks, falling silent only when the Master places a gloved fingertip against his lips to shush him. “You haven’t been sleeping well.” It isn’t a question. The Doctor doesn’t reply. He’s staring at the finger resting on his lips, expression frozen in a nervous half-smile. The Master removes it, settles his palm against the Doctor’s cheek instead, the rasp of stubble against leather a pleasant undercurrent to the drums. “What’s been keeping you up?”

Again, the Doctor doesn’t reply. His eyes have followed the Master’s hand, fluttering shut as the thumb brushes over his temple.

“Doctor?” He murmurs something to his forearm, but doesn’t open his eyes. Is he asleep? The Master braces his hand against the bed and bends down, trying to get a better look at his half-covered eyes. As he does, the Doctor frowns again, stirs and mumbles, turning his head this way and that, before his eyes flick open. When he sees the Master, he smiles.

“Thought you’d gone, but you’re still here.”

“I certainly am.” He opens his mouth, like he wants to ask something, and closes it. “What is it?”

The Doctor shakes his head, hides his face again. “Not allowed to ask,” he mumbles.

The Master quirks an eyebrow. “What would you ask if you were allowed?”

The Doctor, once again, makes no reply.

“It’s not a trick,” the Master says, well aware of the tactics he’d used when he’d taught the Doctor that he’s not allowed to ask certain things under any circumstances. “Which rule are you trying not to break?”

The Doctor still doesn’t answer, just looks at him, eyes growing progressively wider with fear. “Ah, damn, I used that one, too, didn’t I?” The Master heaves a sigh. “Well, I’ve dug myself into a nice little hole here, haven’t I?”

After a moment, the Doctor murmurs, “Master, may I ask a question about the rules?”

“Of course.”

He swallows nervously. “If… If I ask whether or not you’re _going_ to play with me, is that the same as telling…?” He can’t bring himself to finish the phrase, too worried about being punished.

The Master considers it. “Do you know, I don’t think it is,” he decides. “Neutral, innit? Could go either way.”

“So it’s allowed?” The Master smiles and nods. “Are you going to play with me, Master?” The words tumble out in a panicked little rush, and as soon as he’s said them, he hides again.

The Master draws him out with a hand on the back of his neck. It feels good, having the Doctor under his hands again. “Not tonight. You need to rest.”

He deflates slightly. “Yes, Master.” The Master spends a quiet minute petting the Doctor, feeling the messy hair ripple under his glove, the smoothness of the skin behind his ear, leather rasping quietly against stubble on his jaw, giving his mind a rest from his work. The surviving would-be kidnapper had confessed that their orders came from a Captain Jack Harkness and that the Master was to be taken to him, but he either did not know or refused to give any information about the freak’s other plans. A revolt had risen, without any apparent warning, the day after the Master had been taken; his forces still had yet to crush it. Still, it’s only Mutter’s Spiral. Earth’s neighborhood had been fairly thoroughly destroyed in the first years of the Master’s takeover, so there couldn’t be too much resistance. Even if there were, the Master has no qualms about wiping out whole star systems. Messy, yes, but sometimes necessary.

The Doctor’s eyes are closed again, his breathing deep and even. He still seems a little tense, but the Master thinks he’s finally fallen asleep. He doesn’t particularly want to leave, but a representative from the Andromedan Alliance is waiting for him on the video line upstairs, and the Master thinks he’s probably been kept waiting long enough.

 

The pretend Master’s leaving. The Doctor doesn’t want to get on without him just yet. He opens his eyes, sees him turning to go. It’s a dream. It isn’t real, because the Master obviously wouldn’t come for him in the first place. He doesn’t need a lot from this imaginary Master. Even his hand, resting on the side of his face, stroking and touching gently, is bliss. The Doctor wants his hand back.

That’s all he really wants.

It’s a dream. It’s not real.

 

The Master is, to say the least, shocked and awed when the Doctor reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. Not lightly, either, but firm, insistent, even downright forceful as he pulls the Master back toward the bed, wearing his little smile.

The Master turns his wrist in the Doctor’s grip, twists his hand over, drawing his baton with his other hand and cracking it down on the Doctor’s forearm. The Doctor yelps, tries to pull his trapped hand away, but the Master’s having none of it. “The _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, forces the Doctor’s arm up behind his back, pinning him to the bed, making him cry out again.

“I’msorryMasterI’msosorrysosorrysosorry…” He squeezes his eyes shut, turns his face away, babbling apologies and nonsense and the Master’s name into the mattress. The Master twists his arm a little harder, and he gets louder, talks faster.

“Shut _up_ ,” the Master orders, flicking the baton down again. A visible spark jumps across the Doctor’s palm. He yelps again, then falls silent, trembling. “What was that?” the Master snaps. “What were you doing?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer, just shudders, tries to hide deeper in the mattress, and whimpers when the Master hits him again, this time on the shoulder.

“How many times have I told you not to touch?” the Master asks, shakes him violently, prods him in the lower back with the switch. “ _How many?_ And _still_ you disobey me. The rules still apply, Doctor, even if you _are_ ill. Do you understand?”

The Doctor nods in the affirmative, weakly, not emerging from the mattress. His free hand is clenched in the sheet, white-knuckled, visibly shaking. He knows he’s about to be punished, and the Master doesn’t disappoint. He yanks the Doctor’s trousers down to expose his arse and makes five parallel lines over it in quick succession, each of the blows sparking against him, each drawing another muffled shriek from him. The Master spots his soft cock and balls, nestled between his slightly spread legs, and an irrational surge of rage rises within him. He doesn’t _strike_ , just drags the tip of the switch over and down, watching sparks flash, making the skin flush darkly pink. The Doctor screams loud and long at that, his voice cracking at the end.

His point made, the Master pulls the Doctor’s trousers back up and stalks out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

Ashton finds the Doctor curled on his side with his back to the door, rocking gently back and forth, his face turned into the bed, sobbing silently. His whole body shudders with each one. “Doctor?” Ashton says, hurries around the bed, and is very surprised to find that the Doctor’s hand is down the front of his trousers.

“Hurts,” he chokes out. “I was bad. Stupid. He hurt me. Deserved it. I’m bad.” He sobs again. “Bad, bad, bad, bad, _bad_.” Each word is accompanied by the Doctor’s free hand, pounding the mattress.

Ashton isn’t allowed to comfort the Doctor physically, so he offers words instead, and slowly, the Doctor’s sobbing quiets to a sniffle, punctuated by the occasional hiccup. His eyes are red and puffy, his cheeks damp with tears. “I’m going to get you a glass of water,” Ashton murmurs. “Okay? I’ll be right back.”

The Doctor nods, and Ashton sprints to the kitchen.

 

The Doctor rolls out of bed, looks around. He’s bad. Ashton says he isn’t, but the Doctor knows otherwise. Bad, bad, bad. That’s what he is. The Master is letting him off easy because he can’t sleep, but the only reason he can’t sleep is because he was bad in the first place. He’s still not entirely sure what he did, but he’ll make up for it. He spots the vent in the wall under the bed he’d had before his gift, remembers how he’d felt it give under his hands a little, and crawls to it, dragging his sheet along with him. His fingers fit between the slats, just as they did before, and it’s easy to pull the cover out of the wall.

 

“Ashton? Aren’t you supposed to be watching the Doctor?” Lucy asks. Odd, for her to be up so late tonight.

“The Master punished him,” Ashton says softly. “He was… He started crying. I’m getting him a glass of water.” He holds it up, the ice clinking against the sides.

“Punished him? What did he do?”

“No idea,” Ashton says. “Must have been pretty serious, though. The Master was furious, and he’s still really upset. Keeps saying he’s bad.”

 

Bad, bad, bad. It’s dark in the vent. Bad, bad. It will be scary, but the Doctor needs to be punished. He’s bad. He clambers inside. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. The word is starting to sound funny, he’s saying it so much, but it’s true. He’s been so very, very _bad._ The Master is angry. He was pleased, was touching him, held the promise of playtime later, if only the Doctor hadn’t been bad. He thinks he hears something else in the vent, maybe people looking for him, but dismisses it. No one will miss him. They won’t look. He’s bad. He has to make up for it. He’d like to make the Master another gift, but he can’t. Gifts aren’t allowed.

But punishment is.

 

The Master is only a few minutes into his video conference and is already bored out of his mind. He’s given a blessing, however, when Lucy interrupts, tells him she has something important to report. She’s waiting in his outer office, looking extremely anxious, along with Ashton, who looks terrified.

“The Doctor’s missing,” she says, and the Master’s blood runs cold.


	8. Reconstruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master goes on a treasure hunt, then wishes he hadn't found anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're babysitting my niece this weekend, so I thought I'd post this early in case I didn't have time with a three-year-old running around the house.

The first place the Master checks is his bedroom. Systematically, from the top down, that’s the way to do it. He looks everywhere, under his own bed, in the Doctor’s closet, his bathroom. He thinks about checking the secret chamber behind his bed, where he’s hidden the Doctor’s TARDIS, but any number of alarms would go off if anyone but the Master had gone in there. Still, he takes a peek, just to be sure. It’s empty, the TARDIS still singing her song of loneliness.

_The bed was empty. He’d taken the sheet._

The stairwell is empty. The common area is clear. Everyone’s searching their own rooms, but the Master double-checks them all, just to be safe. Lucian’s room, which has been empty for weeks due to his misbehavior, is vacant.

_What would he need the sheet for?_

Sarah and Allison’s room is clear.

_Visions of the Doctor’s toes swinging and twitching a few inches off the ground fill the Master’s head. A sheet would provide him enough length to hang himself with._

Ashton and Lucy’s room is empty.

_He wouldn’t do that. Never. Not the Doctor._

The Master’s office, inner and outer, is Doctor-free. No great surprise.

_He would never kill himself._

The storage closet is full of nooks and crannies, none of which contain the Doctor.

_Not intentionally._

The Master half-expects the Doctor to be in the loo, wondering why everyone looks so out-of-breath and why they’re all staring at him. No such luck.

_But if he’s trying to give the Master another gift…_

The foyer and the kitchen are both empty.

_No. He wouldn’t. Gifts aren’t allowed._

The two standard play rooms are entirely devoid of Doctors.

_He’s broken the rules before._

The Master doesn’t bother checking the electro room on this floor himself, but Lucy says it’s empty. No surprise, as the Doctor hates it in there.

_Not to hurt himself. Never, ever to hurt himself._

The water and suspension rooms go by in a flash with no result, as does the loo on this floor.

_He tried to take a punishment on Lucy’s behalf once, when they started getting attached to one another. Maybe he’s protecting someone._

Callum and Emma’s room is empty.

_Or maybe he’s simply gone insane._

Back in August’s room. The vent cover has been popped off. “He’s on this floor or lower,” the Master says.

“What if he’s hiding in the vents?” Lucy asks, an edge of panic to her voice. “What if he’s stuck? He could… Harry…”

“He can’t still be in there, the security bots would have kicked him out,” the Master says absently. “He must be somewhere on this floor, he hates it downstairs.”

“How d’you know he hasn’t gone up?” Ashton asks, glancing up at the ceiling, as though expecting the Doctor to be clinging there like Spiderman.

“You can’t move upwards through the vent system,” the Master replies. “Search all the rooms on the ground floor again.”

This second search is much more thorough than the first, everyone scouring every corner, every stick of furniture, and the Master is reminded unpleasantly of the way the Doctor had wandered around the various rooms, looking for his TARDIS. Maybe he’s looking for her. He hasn’t found her. The TARDIS would have changed her song.

Sarah reminds the Master of the Doctor’s comments about Milla, and they set off to search the morgue. Drawer after drawer, most of them entirely unoccupied, but some containing dead slaves, preserved in completely transparent blocks of ice. The Doctor is nowhere to be found.

Where could he be? He can’t have gotten out. The impact chamber around the Master’s rooms is entirely self-contained, with independent life support, gravity, and power systems. The only way in or out is via the door, which obviously hadn’t been opened, or by TARDIS, and then only if the transduction barrier were lifted.

They start searching upstairs again while the Master looks for the Doctor downstairs. The spare room is completely bare, having been stripped down entirely after the incident between the Doctor and Lucian. The cells, too, are devoid of any sign.

The Master’s getting desperate. The Doctor avoids the basement at all costs, due to the number of awful experiences he’s had down there, but maybe he’s fallen into one of the rooms by accident. _What if he landed wrong? What if he’s dead?_

He isn’t dead. The Master can feel the hum of his presence due to their telepathic link. He’s alive, and he’s somewhere here.

The White Room is splattered with blackish-red spray and smells of old blood. Lucian was to clean it in the morning.

The wet room takes a bit longer to check, occupied as it is with a myriad of cold tubs and an instant ice machine. The Master’s breath puffs out in front of him in the cold. He hardly notices his own shivering.

A steel door, labeled “Electro Two.” The Doctor’s single least favorite place in the Master’s suites. He’s only ever in here if he’s being punished. Severely.

The Master opens the door and is immediately deluged with the Doctor’s scent, mingled with the acidic taste of electricity in the air. Accident. He’s fallen in here by accident. He expects to find the Doctor crumpled in a heap somewhere, perhaps with a limb or two broken from the fall, asking to be taken to August. What he finds instead is horrifying, even to the Master.

One of the pieces of equipment the Master uses if the Doctor has been very, very bad is a metal chair he calls the King, due to its resemblance to a throne. The Doctor has done nothing. He should not be sitting in it. He should not be flinging himself violently against the full-body restraints with almost suicidal force, a caged animal beating itself to death against the bars, his head lolling limply and jerking unnaturally to the side in turns, every detail of every muscle and every tendon and every bone that’s anywhere near the surface drawn in sharp, rigid detail as his muscles struggle to overpower one another.

The Master casts about for the remote control that starts and stops all the equipment in the room. It’s nowhere to be found, so instead, he reaches behind the King and yanks out the plug, cutting the power directly. The Doctor’s sick, convulsive, unnatural twitches and arches and twisting movements don’t stop, but they do abate, enough that the Master’s no longer worried he’ll snap his own neck from the force of his muscle contractions. He smells faintly of burnt wiring.

“Doctor? Wake up. Doctor?” The Master cups the Doctor’s face in his hands, looks at him intently. “Doctor?”

His head rolls limply, weakly. The Master knows it’s out of his control, but it almost looks like he’s _nuzzling_ , wanting more of the Master’s hands. But that’s not what he’s doing. He’s had too much current running through his body for too long, and the nerves controlling his voluntary muscles are misinterpreting signals from his brain in a sort of peripheral nervous seizure.

The Master starts with the wrists. The metal bands keeping his hands and forearms pinned to the chair peel away with a sickening sound, like Velcro made flesh. Under them, the Doctor’s skin is mottled blue and black and red, blue from the bruises caused by his struggle to get out, black from electrical burns, and red where tiny spots of skin had fused to metal and come away with it. The Master lifts the Doctor’s hand gently, and there is the sound again.

The Master swallows bile. The entire chair conducts electricity, and the Doctor is naked upon it. The Master glances down, just to check, just to be sure, and finds, to his relief, that the Doctor’s legs are cuffed too close together to allow his cock or balls to come into contact with the chair, but they are both dotted with electrodes, which, thankfully, aren’t connected to the same high-energy main as the King.

The relief that spreads through the Master at this realization stops and crumbles away when he remembers what is, perhaps, the King’s most defining attribute: the solid steel plug that rises seamlessly out of the seat of the chair, dead-center.

The plug that is, even now, inside the Doctor, and must have burnt and bruised that sensitive flesh just as the rest of the chair did.

 

The Master is very quiet during the surgery, speaking only to ask for this or that tool, or to hold this or that in place. The Doctor, for his part, is absolutely silent, having been sedated to ensure his continued unconsciousness. The Master likes the way the Doctor screams, but he doesn’t want to hear it now. He has a feeling the noises the Doctor would make, if he were to wake up and feel the burned ribbons of skin all over his body being scrubbed off with a pad of steel wool, would be very unpleasant indeed.

Wherever the Master goes on the Doctor’s back, he finds devastation, and leaves bright red stretches of tender, newly-healed skin in his wake. The worst injury is the last the Master addresses, not out of any kind of protocol, but out of dread for what he’ll find there. He takes a look, turns away from August and Lucy as he composes himself, and when he’s ready, he turns back around and places an almost shockingly gentle kiss to the small of the Doctor’s back, then begins the reconstruction.

 

The Doctor’s much lighter than the Master remembers him being, but it’s still no mean feat to carry him upstairs. The paralytic at least keeps the spasms at bay, giving his nervous system a chance to reset itself, and the sedative is still in effect, so he can’t feel the way his tender new skin must be chafing against that sheet.

There’s something highly endearing in the way he hangs so limply, the way his head is resting on the Master’s shoulder, turning just slightly this way and that with each step up the stairs. If he weren’t so severely injured, the Master would be tempted to fuck him like this, pliable and soft instead of his usual trembling cords of tense arousal.

The Master lays him down gently, the padded bottom of his closet seeming, for the first time, inadequate, not soft enough. The sheet, too. It’s too rough. It will irritate the Doctor’s wounds. Therefore, the Doctor ends up propped up on down pillows and wrapped in soft silk sheets, spares from the cupboard in the Master’s bathroom. When the Doctor is settled on his front in a position that looks at least bearable, even considering the strip of tender flesh just under his nipples from the chest restraint, the Master removes his gloves.

As a rule, the Master doesn’t interact directly with the Doctor’s mind. It’s far too dangerous, and in any case, it feels like cheating. His human toys are all very well, but the Doctor is his ultimate victory, his ultimate challenge, and everything he does, he chooses to do. The Master has touched the Doctor’s mind four times in their time together: the first was a hundred and eighty years ago, to show the Doctor the drums were real. The second was a hundred and forty-four years ago, to remind him. The third was seventy-two years ago, to catch a glimpse of the Doctor’s breaking mind, and the fourth was just about fifty years ago, when the Master retrieved the Doctor’s impressions of Milla from his mind.

Now, though, he settles his bare hands on either side of the Doctor’s face. It’s strange, feeling someone else’s skin after so long in gloves. It sends a tingling sensation up his arms, his spine, the back of his neck. But he needs to concentrate, and does so, brushes gently against the Doctor’s sleeping mind and leaves a message as he’s passing by. The paralytic will last longer than the sedative, and when he wakes, the Doctor won’t be able to move. The Master just lets him know that he’s safe, he’s in his closet, and it will wear off soon, and then they’re going to have a very important conversation about what the hell the Doctor was doing in the electro room.

He sleeps through most of the duration of the paralytic. The Master knows when he wakes up because of the way his breath quickens instinctively, autonomic functions being unaffected by the paralytic, and then slows as he processes the message the Master left for him.

 

He can’t move, but that’s okay, because paralysis is the Master’s way of taking care of him today. His whole body aches and stings, but what doesn’t hurt is extraordinarily comfortable. The Doctor is surprised to recognize the scents of silk and down, and the familiar (how did he come so close to forgetting this entirely?) blend of Masterliness that can only come from his bedroom.

Footsteps, muffled by carpet. The Doctor is paralyzed, but still somehow manages to be very, very still. “Good morning, Doctor,” the Master says, running a hand through the Doctor’s hair, having no idea whatsoever what this simple little gesture of affection has just caused in the Doctor, gratitude and anxiety and solitude and relief and terror warring in him, the way his muscles had just been fighting each other. “You have about fifteen or twenty minutes left before you’ll start to be able to move, and then we’re going to talk about… what’s just happened. If you fall asleep again, that’s fine. We can wait until you’re rested.”

 _MasterMasterMasterMasterMasterMasterMasterMaster_ , the Doctor thinks in reply, his thoughts spinning too fast (between his Master and his closet and how very comfortable he is and the distant, indistinct idea that he’s recently been floating and held) to let him stay awake. He falls away into a deep, deep sleep.

 

The Master goes downstairs to get breakfast, intending to take it upstairs, and maybe share if the Doctor can eat when he wakes up. He arrives in the kitchen just in time to hear Lucian say, “I don’t know why the Master even bothered to fix his arse. I caught a glimpse, and what with how big a slut he is, I could hardly see a difference.”

The table falls quiet, as everyone but Lucian has realized the Master is in the room. A memory flashes white-hot over the Master’s mind, the sight of the Doctor’s perfect little arse reduced to a gaping, bleeding, charred, torn hole.

He loses track of himself for a little bit, and when he comes to, a shaking, sobbing Lucian is bleeding all over the floor of the electro room, peeling little burnt strips of flesh off of the King with his teeth, and dropping them into a bucket between his knees.

What a wonderful idea. The Master does enjoy the ideas he comes up with when he’s angry. As he passes her in the hallway, the Master instructs August to make sure he gets it all, and tells Lucy that, for the next week, Lucian may only eat meaty dishes with a crispy skin, and nothing else. Then he returns upstairs. He’s lost his appetite.

 

The Doctor’s awake again. He’s not sure at first, because he’s still so comfortable and sleepy and warm despite the throbbing ache that pervades so much of his body, but he manages to open his eyes, and he’s sure. He’s also treated to the sight of the Master sitting on his bed, a tablet computer in his lap. His legs are bent slightly and crossed at the knee, supporting the laptop. His tie and suit jacket have been flung carelessly over his armchair, leaving him in his shirtsleeves, though, oddly, he’s still wearing his gloves. A pair of dress shoes rests on the floor by the bed, the Master’s socks forming their black fabric shadows. With a thrill, the Doctor realizes that he’s finally about to find out what the Master’s feet look like. They’re lovely, a bit like his hands, small and elegant, which the Doctor has seen, but rarely felt.

“I can see your feet,” the Doctor slurs.

The Master looks up and smiles. It’s the Doctor’s smile. The Doctor can’t help but smile himself. As it spreads across his face, he realizes how very strange it feels. He hasn’t done it in a long time, has he?

“Good evening to you, too,” the Master replies, setting his computer aside and crossing the room to stand next to the Doctor.

The Doctor is in his closet, looking up at his Master, wrapped in silk and resting on down and only hurting a little. He’s not even too cold or too tired. He is a little hungry, but he ignores that, as he doesn’t think he can chew properly yet, anyway. A leather fingertip traces the shape of his ear, and he takes a great shuddering breath, his hearts aching with _joy_ this time, with relief, with peace, and he… he can’t, he’s not supposed to without permission, but he has to, he _has_ to, he has to whisper, tremulously, terrified of ruining it all again but _needing_ to express the gratitude that chases in the wake of all this perfection. He wants to bow, to grovel, to worship, to suck and be fucked and sleep here, safe with his Master, safe all warm and cared for, and wake up and do it all again. He longs to find a way to tell the Master this without breaking the rules, but he can’t, so he has to settle for a reverent little exhale that takes the shape of the words, “Thank you, Master.”

 

The Master waits for him to wake up a little more before they start talking. The Doctor seems very happy to be back in his closet; he keeps squirming slightly and rubbing his cheek against the pillow, making contented little humming noises. “Doctor?”

“Master?”

“Are you ready to talk now?”

“Of course, Master.” He stills, goes limp, blinking and looking attentively up, meeting the Master’s eyes for the first time in who knows how long.

 

The Doctor doesn’t quite understand why the Master disapproves of what he did. He was bad, after all, and he had to be punished, even if the Master didn’t want to do it himself. The Master, however, is very firm on the point that the Doctor must never, ever punish himself again, because only the Master gets to decide what he deserves. That part, he understands. He apologizes profusely, hoping to get out of being punished for punishing himself, and the Master shushes him, calms him with a hand in his hair, stroking and petting in silence until the Master resumes. He explains that the Doctor isn’t going to be punished, as he’s had quite enough of that to be getting on with. He also tells the Doctor what happened to his body, listening as the Doctor marvels at how little pain there is, considering all the damage. The Master goes on to say that the Doctor will probably have some trouble moving properly for a while, not just where he’d hurt himself, but everywhere. There was too much electricity, and his nerves had to heal. They never had to do that before. The Master says it’s because he turned the power up too high and he was there for too long; he would never have punished the Doctor that way. All these years, the Doctor thought the Master had been using the highest setting, and he hadn’t been at all. His Master is far too kind to him.

The Master asks what the Doctor’s done wrong that makes him think he deserves such a harsh punishment. He noses at the pillow, breathing it in, the thick scent of down rapidly becoming synonymous with comfort. The Master asks him again, but the Doctor can’t reply. He’s not meant to have an opinion on such things, after all, so he remains silent, enjoying the smoothness of silk and the softness of pillows and the safety of his closet and the Master’s presence and being in the Master’s room again after so long, and the Master isn’t angry with him, and he’s here, and he’s talking again. Whoops. Got a bit carried away there.

The Master wants to know if anything feels wrong. Nothing does, except maybe a sort of rawness around his arse, but the Master isn’t asking about pain, he wants to know about tingly spots or numb ones. There aren’t any. He’s still tired and a little thirsty, but he’s not hungry just yet. He doesn’t need the loo. Yes, he hurts, but not very much. The Master promises he will heal soon, and it won’t hurt anymore.

The Doctor has a terrible thought, and scrambles to find a way to ask about it that doesn’t break the rules.

He doesn’t _want_ to leave his closet. Ever, ever, never. It’s safe in here. He wants to stay and talk to the Master and feel the sheets and hold the pillows, but if he’s hurt, the Master is going to make him go back to the sick bay. To leave all of this behind, closeness and warmth and the way the Master’s scent is dotted around the room, so many memories of the Master playing with him here.

He thinks about the sick bay, the slight chemical tang of disinfectant hanging constantly in the air, hurt people coming in and out. All that stark white, none of the Master’s black, latex replacing leather, rough linen replacing silk. The Master won’t make him go back there, will he? The Doctor wants to beg, feels tears stinging his eyes, and hides his face so the Master won’t see them. The familiar ache in his chest twists sharply once more.

“Ah, now, none of that. What’s wrong? Does something hurt?” The Master places a hand on the back of the Doctor’s neck, rubs gently, and the Doctor shivers with the pleasure of it, of the frequency of the Master’s touches, of his gentleness. He thinks of the sick bay, where none of this is forthcoming, and the twist tightens, sharpens, prods at the lump in the Doctor’s throat with a sharp point. He can’t go back there. Can’t. _Can’t._ “Doctor? Is something hurting you?” the Master asks again.

“Master, I…” He can’t think of the words, wants desperately to answer, but isn’t allowed. _Don’t make me leave. Please. Let me stay here. Please, Master, please_. The Master prompts him for an answer again, and he makes weak little fists in the sheets, trying to hold onto them. “Please,” he whimpers. “I can’t.” He realizes, belatedly, he’s said this out loud, and apologizes over and over and over, one into the next, and there are more apologies than there is air in the room. When the Master accepts them, the air clears, and he can breathe again. He’s gotten tears on the pillow, and he noses at them, trying to rub them off.

With a stroke of inspiration, he remembers their conversation from before he punished himself. He can’t express his want this way, but he has to know. “Master? Is it… because I’m hurt… am I… will… will I have to…” It’s so very, very hard to breathe. “…to go back? To before?”

“Before what?”

“Before… before this.” Master. Soft. Master. And silk and warm and

“You mean back to the sick bay?”

The Doctor nods, shuddering, buries his nose in the down again, sure the answer will be a _yes_ and the Master will tear away these wonderful sheets and throw the pillows aside and drag him back downstairs and leave him, so alone, no Master or comfort or safety. He wants to remember these pillows, breathes deep of them, turns his head to take in the scent of the room so he can hold on to that too. He lost it so easily last time, like the disinfectant killed the memories along with the germs.

“No, I’m keeping you up here. Easier to keep an eye on you this way.” The Master’s hand runs lightly down his spine, and the Doctor’s oversensitive new skin can feel the heat of it even through his glove and the sheets. _More_ , he wants to beg, but he’s not allowed. So much he’s not allowed, and it’s wrong for him even to want. He’s so very bad.

But he’s getting so _much_ of what he wants. He’s often wished for blankets or sheets, for softness, and of course, his Master. And he doesn’t have to leave and he’s so very grateful, nuzzling the pillows his Master has given to comfort him, grasping at the sheets his Master has given to hold him, letting that little arch (sorely missed) return to his back, inviting the Master to touch further there. Maybe they can even play tonight, even though he’s hurt. Maybe the Doctor will feel the Master be gentle because he’d have to be gentle. Gentle. There’s a nice idea. Gentle play, the way the Master is being gentle now, gentle like the Master’s hands as he pets him, taking him slow and leisurely, no need to be rough because even the slightest movement would hurt his Doctor enough to satisfy him, and when the Doctor is better he can remember the gentleness and imagine how it would feel without the hurt.

The ache twists with want again. He has to ask.

“Master?”

“Yes?”

“Are we going to play?”

“When you’re better, yes. You should rest for now.”

“…Do you mean sleep, Master?”

“Excellent idea. Go to sleep, Doctor.”

“Yes, Master.” He closes his eyes and relaxes into the pillows under him. He isn’t expecting a goodnight kiss anymore, but he wishes for one. He’ll have to make do with the ones he’s had before. The pillow isn’t soft in the same way as the Master’s lips, but it feels nice to kiss anyway. It feels like thanking him, like a way of touching him that’s allowed.

The Master’s hand settles on his flank, rests there. The Doctor worries it might move before he can fall asleep, but soon, his mind drifts into a space where he can only process how perfectly lovely everything feels and how well this little adventure worked out, and he sleeps again. He sleeps so deeply that he has no nightmares, or if he does, he doesn’t remember.

 

He awakens to find the Master dressing himself the next morning. Unfortunately, he’s already progressed to the shoe-putting-on stage, so the Doctor’s denied a chance to see his feet again. However, the Master hasn’t put his gloves on yet, so the Doctor gets to watch the lovely way his fingers move as he puts on his tie, straightens his collar. Strange, that the Master is leaving his closet door open. He never does normally, because the Doctor’s not allowed to see him naked unless the Master shows him, and he’s not allowed to see the Master sleep. The Doctor worries that he’s not supposed to be watching now, but it was all right yesterday, and maybe the open door means the Master doesn’t mind being seen.

“Ah, Doctor,” the Master says. “Good morning.”

“Morning, Master,” the Doctor murmurs, hearing his own stubble rasp against fabric as he rubs his cheek on the pillow. He can’t get over how bloody _comfortable_ he is. Well, he does need the loo, and he’s hungry now in addition to his mounting thirst, and his skin has that slight stickiness of dried sweat from his exertions the day before, and the new skin is itching like mad now in addition to stinging as it had before, but still.

To his very great surprise, the Master doesn’t leave when he’s finished dressing. Instead, he crosses the room to stand in front of the Doctor, asks about his needs. The Doctor’s allowed to tell him about being hungry and thirsty and itchy and needing to pee, but as much as he wants to, he can’t slip something in about needing kisses or being hungry, not just for food, but for his Master’s cock. Oh, he would love to beg, but he has to await the Master’s mercy.

The Master had warned him about being unable to move properly, and he wasn’t kidding. The Doctor tries to sit up on his elbows, but is thwarted by the sheet. It’s not so tight that it should restrict him, but his malfunctioning nerves can’t make his arms move to the right position with the sheet wrapped around him. He tries to compensate by lifting his hips, hoping to give himself more room to move, but not only does it not help, he’s so weak that he ends up flopping right back down again. He huffs out an impatient sigh. By the time he realizes that the Master is laughing quietly at his misguided efforts, his brow is furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking comically out of the side of his mouth. He flushes with embarrassment, then smiles shyly when the Master leans over him and starts tugging at the sheet, loosening it for him. The Doctor murmurs his thanks, and with the extra room, manages to navigate one forearm under himself. The moment he puts weight on it, however, a sharp, burning pain in his arm lances from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. He lets out a startled exclamation and collapses once more, hiding his eyes in the pillow in shame.

“Ah, sitting up is overrated,” the Master chuckles, which makes the Doctor feel much better. Besides, if he could do it himself, he wouldn’t get the absolute treat of the Master pulling all the sheets away for him, leather brushing against skin, until he’s naked before his Master. Sitting up, he decides, is _definitely_ overrated.

 

The catheter is unexpected, but not unwelcome, as the Doctor sincerely doubts he could aim well enough to use a standard toilet in this state. Then the Master sits next to him with a basin of clear water and a washcloth and wipes him down. The water is cold, but feels very good nonetheless, particularly on his new skin. Besides, the _Master_ is doing it. It doesn’t feel quite as good as the leather of his gloves, but it is very, very nice. He’s only just started to shiver lightly when the Master produces a fluffy white towel and dries him off. When the sheets go back over him, he doesn’t think he’s ever been warmer or more comfortable in his life. Even the itching has subsided, now that the film of sweat is gone. By the time breakfast arrives, he’s having trouble thinking of anything more overrated than sitting up.

Breakfast, part one: a full bottle of ice-cold water he drains through a straw. Breakfast, part two: a cup of hot soup and another towel, which goes under his head in case of spillage. He is, after all, eating sideways.

The Master fed him once, a long time ago, after he’d been very, very bad. He was starved and beaten, half-conscious. The Master had Lucy hold him up and put the brim of a little wooden bowl to his lips. It was only broth, but it was the best thing the Doctor had ever tasted.

The Doctor finishes eating and thanks Lucy. She smiles and ruffles his hair, making him grin and duck his head into the pillow shyly. It’s so _soft_. He brushes his cheek over it, again, again, noses at it, breathes deeply, rubs it with the stubble on his chin.

“Having fun?” the Master asks, amused. He flushes and hides his face again, relaxing a bit when he feels the Master’s hand toying with his hair, lightly at first, passing slowly over the back of his head. Then it teases the messy strands at his temple, smoothes them down. Fingers run over his scalp, and the Doctor can’t help but turn into them, nudging just a bit, encouraging them with a little sigh of the Master’s name. “Yes?”

“What?”

“You said my name.”

“Sorry, Master, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I wasn’t… I didn’t…”

“Hush. It’s all right. Do you need more water?”

“No, Master, I’m fine. Thank you.”

The fingers resume stroking, and the Doctor closes his eyes, taking deep breaths of down and silk and Master. He feels so tired, but the Master hasn’t given him permission to sleep. He shakes himself a little, waking himself up, and opens his eyes. Mustn’t drift off. The Master might want him for something.

The Master, wanting him. The Doctor shivers lightly, imagining those fingers wandering lower, cupping his arse, fingers teasing, pressing, sinking inside—

“You can go back to sleep, if you like,” the Master murmurs. “Resting will help you heal.”

He wants to stay awake, to feel the Master’s touches, but he _is_ tired. “Yes, Master,” he whispers, closes his eyes, and drifts away.

 

He ends up doing that pretty frequently for the next couple of days. He sleeps for a few hours, reawakens, enjoys his new creature comforts, and falls asleep again. To his never-ending surprise, the Master doesn’t leave him. Their food is brought up by Lucy or Ashton, and the Master does his universe-taking-over business on a laptop, usually while the Doctor’s asleep. Once, half-awake, the Doctor hears a snatch of conversation between the Master and someone on the other end of a video call. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t mind, just lets himself be lulled to sleep by the Master’s voice.

Slowly, he figures out how to move again. It’s a lot harder than he remembers, but it gets easier when his skin finally heals enough that he can rest his weight on it without screaming in agony. It still stings and tingles at first, but after roughly a week (he thinks, he’s not been very good with time lately), his pain-sensing nerves finally reacquaint themselves with his brain, and all he feels is the rawness of the new skin. Even that fades, though, until the only thing that causes him any pain is the soreness in his arse, and that he almost likes. It reminds him of the way he aches after the Master’s rough with him, and he misses it.

Still, he can hardly complain, can he? Not when the Master is so kind and attentive. Before the Doctor can feed himself, the Master leaves that to Lucy or Ashton, but he’s always got a close eye on things, watching over the edge of his laptop monitor. If the Master’s busy, whoever’s there keeps him company until the Master has time for him, and then the Doctor’s world becomes a few blissful minutes of the Master’s gloves against his skin. Then, on top of that, there’s the fact that, every day, the Master sends Lucy and Ashton down to lunch and pulls the sheets away, rubbing him down with a washcloth. It feels so very good, so close, so intimate, that when the Master’s finished, the Doctor always has to resist the urge to beg him to do it again.

He dreams about them sometimes, these little sessions. He imagines them almost the same as they really are, but there are additions. Sometimes the Master clambers in next to him and moves in close, holds him as the cloth runs over his skin. Sometimes he’s not being washed at all, and it’s just the Master’s hands tracing every inch of his body. And, if the Doctor is lucky, he gets to dream about both of these things at once, held and touched, and the Master bends his head, brushing his lips against the Doctor’s, hand gliding down to cup his balls and _squeeze—_

He always wakes from these dreams flushed and smiling just slightly, but he quickly puts them out of his mind, first because he doesn’t have permission to be hard, and second because they hurt to think about. (He’s been trying not to think about things he can never have.)

 

The Doctor can _walk_.

He grins with sheer delight, takes another few stumbling steps, grunting as his weakened legs go out from under him and he falls. Ashton’s quick, though, so he doesn’t hit the floor. Per the Master’s instructions, he helps the Doctor back to his feet, watching carefully as he wobbles unsteadily toward the bathroom door. “Ha! That’s it. No, _that_ way, bloody useless thing,” he says to his leg, trying to make it move forward and not sideways. He swings with his whole hip and gets it to move forward, but overbalances and has to lean on Ashton for support again.

All in all, it takes him about ten minutes to make his way into the bathroom, and another ten to make his way out. With practice, he brings it down to seven, then five, then three, until finally he can slip carefully out of his closet and make it there in no time at all. It’s wonderfully freeing not to be tethered to the catheter, even if the effort of going to and fro exhausts him.

Unfortunately, it also means that the Master has to lock him in again. He leaves the closet door open during the day, but closes and locks it when it’s time to go to sleep. Thankfully, the Master has given permission to leave the little light on, so the dark isn’t scary, and he’s allowed the Doctor to keep his silk and down. It’s quite cozy in there. Besides, the closet isn’t shielded, like the external impact chamber, so the Doctor can feel the Master’s presence, always nearby, keeping him safe. (Safe from what, the Doctor can’t recall.)

 

The cloth dips into the cleft of his arse, glides to the other side, disappears with a tiny splash as the Master wets it again, and returns. “Lift,” he says, and the Doctor raises his hips. As the Master moves the cloth over his hipbone, the leather of his glove nudges the base of the Doctor’s cock. It twitches in response. He ducks his head into the pillow, hoping the Master didn’t notice, then relaxes a little when the cloth continues its circuit as usual.

It makes a detour. The water in the cloth has warmed a little from his body heat, but the flannel still feels cold on his rapidly heating cock. He yelps and pulls away from the unexpected visit, making the Master chuckle.

 

“Well, what have we here? Could be the end of time-out and time to play some more.” The Master cups the Doctor’s balls through the fabric, and he coos, wiggling his arse a little higher into the air in invitation. The Master helps himself to a handful of firm, smooth flesh, squeezing and rubbing firmly, spreading his fingers to see… Yes. He might just be able to handle it, even though his thighs are trembling with the effort of holding himself up. The Master slides a towel under the Doctor’s hips, then presses down on the small of his back. He makes a dismayed little noise, and his hips tilt up just slightly. It has every appearance of begging, just without the words.

“Don’t worry, dearest Doctor, we’re going to play. I just don’t want to wear you out too quickly, that’s all.” The Master smirks, trails a finger over the Doctor’s perineum, then presses gently. The Doctor arches into the touch, his moan muffled slightly by the pillow, but music to the Master’s ears nonetheless. It’s been… how long has it been? Far too long, in any case. Time to rectify that. He slides his finger up, teasing a bit at the rim, fishing in his pocket with his other hand for lube. The Doctor hisses at the cold as the clear fluid runs down to his balls, but rolls his hips, just once, in anticipation. The Master works a finger inside, up to the hilt, and crooks it to drag over the Doctor’s prostate on the way out. The Doctor shudders with pleasure, hands twisting in the sheets, and he whimpers softly. The Master loves the sound so much that he slips that finger in again, crooks it further, rubs back and forth a few times, then again, and again, adds more lube and a second finger to find the Doctor covered in a fine sheen of sweat. By the time the third finger joins its fellows, the Doctor has settled into their familiar rhythm, relaxing as the fingers go deeper and tightening as they slip slowly out, thrusting gently against the towel each time they find that _spot._

The Master’s cock feels like it’s been cast out of neutronium by the time he frees it and lines it up with the Doctor’s very welcoming arse. Pushing inside feels like coming home, but sweeter, hotter, pent-up lust making his balls jump now and then, only the Master’s irrepressible will keeping his orgasm at bay. The Doctor’s hands, meanwhile, have resumed twisting in the sheets, grasping here and there, uncertain what they should be doing. The Master takes mercy on him and takes his wrists, pins them in the small of his back with one hand, delivering a brisk smack to the arse with the other. He jumps with a gasp, and the exhale is a very satisfied moan. The Master chuckles. “Ah, I missed you,” he murmurs, and the Doctor’s choked sob in response turns to a high, keening sound of pleasure as the Master rolls his hips (and the head of his cock hits the _exact_ right place) and starts to fuck, deep and slow and sure.

 

The Doctor bites the pillow, just to keep himself from turning to look at the Master. He can’t. The Master has never taken the Doctor in his closet before, and the overwhelming ache of happiness has brought tears to the Doctor’s eyes. And the Master missed him. _Missed_ him. _Him._ He was missed, the way he misses the Master. What a revolutionary idea.

 

It’s a lot easier to keep the Doctor where he wants him when he’s lying down, and he seems to relax more quickly when he’s comfortable. The Master might have to do this again. Soon, preferably. He reckons the Doctor’s due for a milking. Although, he supposes there’s nothing to keep him from coming just now—the Doctor hasn’t had a need for his chastity since he’d gone to the electro room, so he’s not wearing it, which is a tad unfortunate. It did produce the most shameless noises of need. Still, the noises of pleasure the Doctor is currently making are a suitable replacement, since they are both delightful and shameless.

The Master goes as slowly as his libido will allow, which isn’t very slow for very long. Within a few minutes, he’s progressed to the very-nearly-violent stage, each thrust bringing with it a slap of flesh against flesh, the Doctor’s moans becoming desperate. He pushes himself back, onto his knees, trying to meet the Master halfway, and his legs tremble with the effort, but he manages to hold the position. Until, that is, the Master shoves him down again with a sound eerily close to an actual growl, tangles a hand in his hair, and yanks his head back. “Stay,” he commands, watching the Doctor’s face from the side, watches his expressions change, the way his eyes flick open now and then, rolling with pleasure before fluttering shut, the highlight on his bottom lip as he bites it, now and then moistening it with his tongue. The Master knows that tongue so well, and remembers how it moves, how it tastes and how it feels under the head of the Master’s cock—

He snarls again, fucks harder. “Don’t you _ever_ do anything to hurt yourself again,” he orders. “I want you ready for me. When I want you under me, whenever I want to string you up or pin you down, _you should be ready_.” These last words he punctuates with particularly forceful thrusts, each of which makes the Doctor croon loudly with pleasure. The Master releases his hair at last, pets him a little, gently, as his head meets the pillow again, his eyes closed now with bliss.

“YessMaster,” he breathes. “Master… I can’t… ‘mgonna…”

“Good,” the Master says shortly, and the Doctor cries out, tightens around him, arms attempting an involuntary spasm of pleasure, but held fast at the wrists by the Master’s hand. He shivers and shudders throughout his orgasm, and when the Master (with unexpected force) reaches his own, bracing himself against the Doctor’s back with his palms, he feels the Doctor’s trembling beneath him. He catches his breath while toying lightly with the hair at the nape of the Doctor’s neck, looking at his face, marveling at the placid contentment he sees there. It’s the most peaceful he’s seen the Doctor since he returned from that little adventure with Jack’s thugs.

He pulls his softening cock out of the Doctor, giving him a soothing pat on the thigh when he makes a soft, sad noise, and arms himself once more with the flannel, wiping away lube and come. When the Doctor’s clean once more, the Master pulls the sheets over him, puts himself away, and pets him, grinning a little as the Doctor nudges against his hand, curls up a little more under the sheets, his eyes closed, the slightest of smiles lingering on his lips.


	9. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor snuggles a bit. It should go without saying at this point that everything goes horribly wrong again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has kudos'd and/or commented! Every individual piece of feedback gives me a greater sense of satisfaction, on its own, than when I graduated from high school. Thanks, lovelies. On with the story.

It couldn’t last, of course, not when the Master’s so busy. The Doctor can mostly move on his own now, but he still tires very easily, so he’s not ready to rejoin the household yet. He doesn’t mind. He gets to spend all his time in the Master’s room now, and he’s unspeakably grateful, even if the Master himself has been working more and more. His closet is infinitely preferable to the sick bay. Besides, the Master gives him either Lucy or Ashton to keep him company, and for six hours a day, he’s allowed the use of a tablet computer to play games or doodle with. Ashton also brings a book with him most of the time, and Lucy’s been keeping him up to date with the goings-on of the household. (Lucian, as usual, has been acting like a suicidal moron. Apparently, the night previous, he’d tried to sneak out of bed and steal extra food from the kitchen. The Master has him hanging by his thumbs in the White Room.)

The Master always says hello when he gets in. He’s late tonight. Lucy says he’s in the middle of some very important negotiations. The idea of the Master _negotiating_ for anything is slightly odd. The Doctor wishes he still did his work on his laptop, in bed, where the Doctor can see him and hear him and watch his lips move as he speaks. But the Master’s work is more important, of course.

Ashton arrives, bearing dinner, to relieve Lucy. She says goodbye and gives up her seat, a chair the Master had brought up from the common area. Ashton sinks into it, handing over the dinner tray as he does. The Doctor eats and they chat amiably for a long time, about Lucian’s misbehavior, Emma’s cooking lessons, Sarah’s cooking, Sarah’s arse, Allison’s obvious affections for Lucy, Callum’s apparent jealousy of their closeness, and Lucy’s arse, among other things.

When the Doctor can’t keep his eyes open, Ashton shuts off the lights in the room (but lets the Doctor leave his closet light on) and the Doctor curls up under his sheets to sleep. It takes him a while to do so. It’s strange to sleep in here without the Master.

 

Gloves on his skin. The Doctor smiles, uncurls a bit. “Master,” he sighs. “You came back.”

“I always come back,” the Master reminds him. “Want to play?”

 _Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes,_ the Doctor thinks, but can’t say anything.

“Come on, then. _Let’s play_.”

That wasn’t the Master’s voice.

The Doctor turns over, looks at him, and his scream freezes in his throat. Lucian stole the Master’s gloves. Lucian got out. Where’s Ashton? Lucian got out of the White Room. He stole the Master’s gloves to fool the Doctor, because he knows, knows that with the Master’s gloves, the Doctor can’t fight him, can’t, can’t. Feels too good. He stole the Master’s voice, too, keeps calling his name in it, telling him it’s okay, relax.

He can’t fight. He _can’t_. Best just to get it over with. The Doctor squeezes his eyes shut, turns away from Lucian, into the Master’s gift, his down and silk and the light in his closet to keep the dark away, he’ll just wait, let Lucian have what he wants and then the Master will come back and take care of him some more and everything will be fine, just fine, absolutely fine, just so long as he doesn’t fight.

He waits.

Nothing happens. He feels nothing but the bass drone of the Valiant’s deep-space engines, something wet on his face, cool air on his chest and arms, a lightheaded and drifting sort of sensation, like he can feel the ship moving through space, and the Master’s gloves.

“Doctor?” the Master says.

The Doctor shivers lightly. His legs are in an awkward position. He tries to shift them, but they’re thoroughly tangled in the sheets, which have become soaked somehow. He opens his eyes, timidly, turns to look. The Master is here, the real Master, not the fake one that stole his voice.

“Master,” he breathes, his panic not so much deflating as decompressing, like a plane with a window blown out. His entire body feels like lead. “Master. ‘S you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” the Master says softly. He wipes the Doctor’s face with a corner of the sheet. “Close your eyes.”

His tongue feels too big for his mouth, and his throat is dry. He feels… strange, the lightheadedness slowly leaking away until he’s left with a vacuum. “Don’ wanna,” he says, before he can stop himself. Somewhere in his brain, there are lots of alarm bells going off, but they’re muted, wrapped in old bedsheets in a garage somewhere. “Might switch with you again… and hurt… hurt me. Don’t wanna hurt, ‘m too tired.”

“I won’t hurt you. Close your eyes, now.”

“Wanna see you,” the Doctor mumbles, making soft, frustrated noises as the Master starts tugging at the sheets. “Don’. I like them. Feels so warm… safe.” It’s getting harder to talk. The Master draws his screwdriver and starts shearing through the fabric. No. No, he _can’t_. Can’t take those away.

 

“Please, no, Master. ‘m sorry, thought he was… I thought it was okay…” He’s grasping weakly at the sheets, but only with his left hand. He seems to have injured his right—each time it closes around the fabric, he winces and releases it. The Master looks closer and finds that his pointer finger is missing a nail.

“What’ve you done to your hand?”

“Don’t take them,” he whispers. “Pleaseplease. Master, don’. Sorry.” His eyes are wide and afraid. “Is it ‘cause I hurt my fingers? Don’t… don’t need them. Can do whatever… anything…” He frowns, groans. “Can’t think.”

“Don’t,” the Master advises. “I gave you some medicine to help you sleep. Close your eyes, Doctor. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

“When I wake up,” the Doctor echoes, his voice soft and distant.

“Yes.”

“Gonna wake up?”

“You’ll wake up.”

“Oh.” There’s something flat in his voice the Master doesn’t like, but he closes his eyes at last and stops fretting, lies still. The Master finishes cutting him free of the tangled, damp sheets; Ashton picks him up and carries him downstairs. The Master follows, instructing Lucy to clean up and get fresh bedclothes.

Disappointed. The Doctor was disappointed.

August says he’s broken three fingers on his right hand, in addition to the torn fingernail, but he’s otherwise fine. Physically. The fact that he broke the fingers by slamming them repeatedly into the call button until it cracked and came loose from the wall would suggest something’s wrong beyond that.

And he was disappointed. Disappointed he’d wake up.

The Master heads back upstairs, _he doesn’t want to wake up_ , waits for Lucy to toss the ruined sheets down the laundry chute, and sets about fixing the button. It’s made much more difficult than it should be by the constant intrusions of _he wants to die, he wants to die, he wants to die_ on the Master’s thoughts.

 

Ashton is at the door, having a whispered conversation with the Master. The Doctor wonders idly what they’re talking about, but he’s distracted by the smell of disinfectant. This is his closet. It shouldn’t smell like disinfectant.

Ashton and the Master finish their conversation and head toward him. “Hello,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “How come it smells like the sick bay in here?”

“Lucy had to clean your closet a bit,” the Master explains. “The smell shouldn’t last too long.”

“Why would she have to clean in here?”

Ashton looks at him quizzically. “You don’t know?”

The Doctor’s about to ask what it is he’s meant to know when the Master interrupts, “Ashton and Lucy will stay with you in your closet now. They’re allowed to touch, but no sex. I’ve put you back in chastity. Keeps things simple.”

The Doctor reaches down and finds that, yes, his encasement is back on. He sighs happily, rubbing his cheek against the new pillows, curling and uncurling his hands in the new sheets. “Mind if I butt in?” Ashton asks, slipping in next to him. The Doctor scoots away. Ashton’s allowed to touch him; doesn’t mean he’s allowed to touch Ashton. The Master leaves the closet door open and hands Ashton a book. He strokes the Doctor’s hair a few times, which relaxes him immensely.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” he asks softly. The Doctor shakes his head mutely. “Nothing at all? Don’t remember waking up and calling me?” The Doctor shakes his head again, hides a little in his sheets. Is he in trouble? “You’ve been having very bad dreams. Ashton and Lucy are here to help you stay calm in case I can’t be here right away.”

The Doctor has a distant memory, Ashton holding him when he’s… he can’t quite recall. But it felt nice. “Is Ashton allowed to… to hold me, Master?”

“Yes. So is Lucy.”

“And… and they can stay? Even if I fall asleep?” He doesn’t want to fall asleep. The idea scares him, but he can’t think why.

“Of course.”

What a lovely idea. The Doctor reaches for Ashton, but doesn’t touch; Ashton takes his hands gently, pulls him closer, closes the distance between them. He’s very warm. The Doctor burrows into him gratefully, resting his head on Ashton’s shoulder, glancing up at the Master to make sure he’s okay with it. He’s actually smiling a little. “Good,” he says. “Cozy?”

“Warm,” the Doctor replies. “Thank you.” He butts his chin against Ashton’s chest to let him know he wasn’t only thanking the Master. He gasps with delight when Ashton’s arms encircle his body, holding him closer. Ashton’s softer than he looks, particularly around the belly. The Doctor folds his hands there, presses his nose into Ashton’s shoulder, letting their closeness chase the chill out of him. He thinks briefly about the way the sun felt, but pushes the thought away hurriedly. Seeing a sun again is almost as impossible a notion as the Master deciding to hold him the way Ashton is now.

“See you tonight,” the Master says, stroking his hair once more before heading back out the door. The Doctor clutches Ashton’s shirt compulsively, buries himself a little deeper in sheets and pillows and warmth, the closest thing he’ll ever have to the Master’s embrace.

 

Lucy comes in with lunch for the Doctor and relief for Ashton, who has duties to attend to. The Doctor doesn’t want to let go of him, but he has to. He feels very cold when he curls up under the sheets, alone again. Why is he alone if Lucy’s still here? She sets the tray next to him, tells him to eat. He does so with some reluctance, taking a few bites of his sandwich, then huddling back under the sheets until Lucy reminds him to keep eating.

When he’s finished at last, he wriggles backwards, back against the wall of his closet, making himself as small as possible in hopes that Lucy will join him. She’s allowed to touch, but that doesn’t mean she will.

She does. She’s smaller than Ashton, but just as warm, and she holds him close, lets him tangle his legs with hers, wrap his arms around her waist. He can hear her heartbeat when she cradles his head against her chest. He wonders what the Master’s hearts sound like, then remembers that he’ll never be allowed to know. With the realization comes a sharp, searing hot pain in his chest, and he clutches at Lucy’s shirt, his eyes stinging and watering. He can’t hold back a quiet sob. He can’t hold anything, not even Lucy, not even when she’s so close to him. He wishes Ashton were still here, wishes he could have them both, Lucy’s heart beating and Ashton’s strong arms. Maybe, if they held him at both sides, he could hear their hearts at once, and the Master might allow him to pretend…

He whimpers, holds her tighter, can’t stop the tears. She shushes him, pets his hair the way the Master does. It feels wrong, but he lets himself imagine that it’s the Master’s hand smoothing over his forehead, and that calms him. It doesn’t brush away the feeling that, if he lets go of her, even for a moment, he’ll dissolve and disappear like sugar in hot tea. He can’t, not yet. He has to wait for the Master.

“All right?” Lucy murmurs.

“Always,” he says in reply, even though it’s obvious to both of them that he’s far from it. “Did Ashton leave his book?”

“Yes, he did. Would you like to read?” He can’t say what he likes, so he doesn’t reply. “Doctor?”

“Lucy,” he answers, nosing at the soft skin of her neck, just below her ear.

“I’m not the Master, Doctor, I’m not allowed to punish you for saying. We can read, if you like.”

He shivers, cold suddenly. “He watches,” the Doctor says in a hoarse half-whisper. “He’ll know if I’m bad.”

“I’m asking, not him.”

“But he can still hear, and I’m not allowed to tell him.” He thinks for a moment. “Are you allowed to read aloud?”

Lucy smiles at that and opens the book, asking where he’d left off and beginning at the appropriate paragraph. Her voice isn’t the Master’s, of course, but he likes it nonetheless, and the way he can feel her voice in her chest as she speaks, the way her fingers toy lightly with his hair when they aren’t turning pages, and it’s so very easy for him to close his heavy eyes, curl his fingers into her clothes and hold on, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder and the pillows in turns. Then he decides that he can have both by leaving his head on the pillow and turning his face into her arm, her voice washing over him, soft and even, and the chill starts to leave him, slowly, slowly, Lucy’s hands still toying with his hair, dreams of Ashton to hold him and Lucy’s heart to listen to and the Master’s hands to touch him carrying him away…

 

The Master’s voice wakes him. “Is he asleep?”

“N’Mawst’r…” He rubs his eyes, smiles up at the Master. The bedroom is dark. He slept through dinner. “Awake. Morning. Er. Night.”

The Master smiles back down at him, and he can’t help but duck his head into Lucy’s neck to hide the slight blush that crops up on his cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

“Good. I’m feeling frisky.” The Master grins, dismissing Lucy. It doesn’t matter so much that no one’s holding him when the Master’s here, particularly not when the Master’s in a playful mood, and particularly _particularly_ not when he’s adjusting the height of a fucking machine.

 

The Master wants him open and soft, so he gets a plug to clench around as the Master marks him with the riding crop. He’s missed it, and each strike draws a little coo of pleasure from him, his cuffed hands curling and uncurling on the pillow next to his head, hips humping lightly at the sheets just to feel the cage dig into his groin. He’s not even being made to count.

When the Master feels he’s ready, the plug is pulled away, ever-so-slowly, and the machine is lined up instead. The machine gets a thorough coating of lube, the Doctor a replenished supply, and the machine starts at a maddeningly slow pace. He rides it happily, teething at the corner of a pillow and squirming in his prettiest way, getting a “good boy” from the Master for his trouble. He increases the speed slightly, and the Doctor moans his appreciation.

So it goes for the next hour, until the machine is pounding into him at superhuman speed with room to spare. The Doctor is soaked with sweat and his voice is hoarse, the Master’s grin is as wide as it’s ever been, and it’s time. He protests wordlessly and makes weak attempts to clench as the machine is backed away, but is far beyond the point where he could do anything about it. Besides, it’s soon replaced with something infinitely preferable. The Master’s fly unzipping sounds loud in the sudden silence left by the absence of the machine’s hum. The Doctor can’t help but let out a sigh of longing, trying to make an inviting sort of wiggle with his hips, as he has before, but he’s too weak to lift them. He’ll sleep so very, very well tonight.

When the Master takes him, he gets so many treats: his cock, of course, not as large nor as hard as the machine’s, but much better for its warmth and the way it feels when the Master rolls his hips just _so_ and the occasional brush of the Master’s trousers against the Doctor’s balls or arse. Then there’s his hands, roaming up the Doctor’s sides, stroking his hair, pressing his face into the pillow, delivering a smack of leather-on-skin to his thighs, his back, and then lower, lower, making the marks he’d left earlier glow with even more heat.

And then, without warning, the Master’s gone.

The Doctor cries out, turns his head, trying to see. Where’s the Master gone? Is he dreaming again? The Master’s face comes into view, smirking down at him. “Don’t like that, eh?”

_NoMasterpleaseMasterpleasedon’tstopMasterI’msorryMasterplease…_

The Master hums thoughtfully. The Doctor can never quite get used to the feeling of leather on his skin, never quite prepare himself for the way it feels as it traces the rim of his gaping arse. He shivers, twitches, moans, tries a thrust or two. “I think I’ll give you the machine again. You don’t seem quite ready.”

The Doctor bites into the pillow, squeezes his eyes shut, forces back tears. Bad, bad. He hears the machine roll on the soft carpet, hears the mechanical whine as the Master extends it. He’s very bad. The Master pushes it in even deeper than last time, pins his hips to the sheets with a hand in the small of his back, and starts it, slow once more. He’s whimpering almost continuously now, can’t help it, can’t stop. He tries to clench, but can’t; why does the Master think he needs more time with the machine? Doesn’t matter. He has to make his Master happy. He does his best, moaning, clutching at his precious sheets, trying to be pretty even if he can’t move. His cock is straining against the cage, aching and burning, swollen with heat and blood and arousal. The Master ups the speed on the machine; his cock twitches in its encasement in response, forcing itself even harder against the unyielding polycarbonate. He cries out at the pain; the machine stops, half-buried in his arse. He whimpers, moans, tries to ride it, summoning some strength in his desperation. He’s held fast by the Master.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Doctor?”

_YesyesyesyesyesgodyesMasterpleaseyespleasepleasepleaseMasteryesplease_

“Beg.”

“Master, please, fuck me, Master, need your cock, need you to fuck me, please, Master, pleaseplease Master, more Master, please don’t stop, Master, please, pleasepleaseplease…”

He hasn’t been ordered to stop begging, so when the Master rolls the machine away and resumes fucking him, he continues. “Yes, Master, thank you, thank you so much, Master, please, Master, yes, more, please…”

He loses anything approaching coherence when the Master reaches around his thigh, takes hold of his balls, and _squeezes_ hard as he takes him. He makes sure to include “please” and “Master” and “fuck” as often as possible between wordless sounds and gasps for breath. He’s drenched in sweat, but the Master’s efforts drive away the chill, and the last scraps of it melt away when the Master comes inside him, slows his pace. He’s being gentle, quite by accident. The Doctor saves every moment, every movement, every muttered word of praise. He wants to dream of this later. He wants to dream of what it’d be like if the Master were gentle on purpose.

He’s already half asleep when he hears the door open, feels a gloved hand on his shoulder. The cuffs are gone. He rubs his wrists, wishing for them back. He’s a fan of any way in which the Master holds him. “Ashton’s here. He brought you dinner.”

The Doctor opens his eyes with difficulty. “Oh. Thanky’Master.”

Ashton helps him sit up so he can eat. Sometimes, the Doctor gets caught up in staring at the Master, who’s straightening the toys on the wall, and forgets to bring the spoon all the way up to his mouth; Ashton completes the journey for him, guiding his hand. When it’s done, Ashton puts the empty bowl on the landing for collection later, then pulls a sleepy and slightly reluctant Doctor into the bathroom to use the loo. He’s not sure how he gets dressed, but has a feeling Ashton is to do with that, as well.

He’s horizontal now. Good. He closes his heavy lids once more and curls up under his sheets; they’re pulled away, and Ashton takes his wrists. The Doctor pulls them away indignantly. “Whuzzat?” he grumbles. His wrists are taken again, by the Master this time. “Sorry.” The Master’s doing something now. Cuffs. He sighs contentedly. They’re his favorites, leather lined with silk. The Master tests them, slips a finger between cuff and skin to make sure he still has blood flow, and finds them satisfactory. “Gonna play some more?” he asks hopefully.

“Not tonight, no.”

“Oh.” He’d like to ask why the Master is cuffing him, but he doesn’t want to sound like he’s complaining. Ashton settles in next to him; the Master toys with his hair some more. “Than’y’Master.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

“Yes, mah… Hmm?”

“I said ‘goodnight.’”

“Oh. Goodnight, Master.” He knows better than to hope for a goodnight kiss these days, but presses a kiss of his own to the pillow and reaches for Ashton. He’s asleep before Ashton’s arms make it all the way around him.

 

The Master has just finished changing when his watch beeps. He opens the door to the Doctor’s closet absently. “If he’s so concerned about it, why doesn’t _he_ do something?” he asks Lucy, who shrugs and throws her hands up in an “I have no idea, but I wish he’d shut up” sort of way. The Master heaves a sigh. He hates politicians, particularly those who think it’s his job to solve all their problems just because he conquered their planets. This particular politician is of the opinion that the Master ought to increase security and keep the planet’s natives from killing one another for bread. The Toclafane are stretched thin as it is, and even if they weren’t, the Master wouldn’t give a damn. “Tell him to deal with it himself. They’re always whining about not having enough autonomy anyway.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Is something wrong, Master?” The Master is surprised to find Ashton standing outside the door to the bathroom for a moment before he remembers the babysitting assignment.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” the Master says. “How did he sleep?”

“Surprisingly well. Must have been worn out.”

His watch beeps again, but not the way it does when the Doctor needs to be let out. This time, it’s a high-pitched sound, almost like a whistle—an emergency call. He heaves a heavy sigh, then says, mimicking a high, whiny voice, “Waaah, my ice cream fell off the cone. Make it better, Master! Tell me a bedtime story!” Lucy laughs; Ashton’s lips press together and twist in a little smile he can’t help. The bathroom door opens, and a bleary-eyed Doctor rubs his eyes at the threshold. “Morning,” the Master says.

“G’morning, Master. Is everything all right? Heard your watch.”

“Of course. Just some whiny politicians overreacting.” A tongue of hair is sticking up from the back of the Doctor’s head. The Master smoothes it down, but it won’t cooperate, so he tries once more, and again. The Doctor’s eyes are closed, and he’s calm for once. The Master’s surprised at his own relaxation, but just as he starts to settle into it, his watch goes off again, and they both jump. “Bugger. Here.” He gives the shirt to the Doctor to put in the laundry for him. “See you tonight.”

 

The Doctor holds the shirt in his hands. The Master’s shirt. _The Master’s_ shirt. Ashton ushers him back into the closet, slipping in next to him and opening their book so they can read before Lucy comes up with breakfast. Ashton offers to take the shirt for him; he declines. He curls up in Ashton’s lap, clutching the Master’s shirt to his chest, nosing at it, taking a deep breath of its scent now and then, rubbing the fabric against his cheek, his neck. He wonders what it is he’s done that merits such a gift.

He’s dozing again when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Lucy, who’s balancing a tray of food in one hand and a tea tray in the other, and needs Ashton to open the door for her. The Doctor tucks the Master’s shirt under a pillow for safekeeping and joins them for a picnic breakfast on the floor. Ashton circles his arms around the Doctor’s waist. Ashton’s thin, like the Doctor, but he’s strong, and he supports the Doctor’s weight easily, letting him lean into his shoulder as he eats. Lucy, alone of the Master’s slaves, is allowed outside of the impact chamber with him; she tells them about a meteor shower they saw one evening while seeing an ambassador off the ship. The Doctor closes his eyes and imagines it, standing next to the Master in front of the window, lights streaking past and bursting into flames as they enter the atmosphere below. It’s been so long since he’s seen the stars.

Lucy joins him in the closet this time. She’s brought a tablet with her, and lets him play with it, his head in her lap, as she reads something official-looking the Master gave her. The Doctor opens the doodling program and starts to draw. A dozen meteorites, then some stars, the Alpha-Epsilon Configuration, with the Alabaster Nebula shining in the distance.

Lucy’s still reading.

Distantly, he remembers he used to travel. The idea of running around all of time and space by himself is frankly terrifying now, but he did see some beautiful things. Seventeen stars in tight, chaotic orbit around the black hole in the Microsal system, an asteroid the size of Britain colliding with a planet the size of Jupiter and stripping away its crust, a neutron star glowing in the depths of dust clouds.

He thinks about the asteroid collision. The Master might like that. He draws that first, the moment of impact. There was so much force in it that the asteroid almost _splashed_ into the surface of the planet, solids made liquid by sheer kinetic energy. Stars and other asteroids next; then he frames it all in a huge window. He draws his own figure only in silhouette, a featureless, monochromatic shadow sitting cross-legged at the Master’s feet. The Master, though, gets more time and detail than anything else in the picture, every strand of hair placed with as much precision as possible. He slips a hand under the pillow, strokes the Master’s shirt with his fingertips, looking at his work. Yes, that would be nice. He saves it.

Lunchtime. He wants to stay close to the Master’s shirt, so he and Lucy and Ashton all sit next to one another in the closet, eating off their laps and having a “stupid face” contest, which Ashton wins with a combination of crossed eyes and a tongue configuration that goes against the laws of nature. Ashton excuses himself; the Doctor curls back up in Lucy’s lap, starts drawing something else. This one takes a bit longer, a dying star stealing material from a younger and healthier neighbor, the beginning stages of a type 1a supernova. The Doctor is a shadow again. The Master holds the shadow’s leash, watches the stars dance.

Dinner. The Master isn’t back yet. The Doctor draws him coming through the door, a quick sketch, which he fills in and colors when the Master still doesn’t show up. Lucy tells him to go to the loo; he does so, then returns, adding still more detail.

He falls into an uneasy sleep when he’s told to, and wakes three or four times during the night. Each time, he’s drenched in sweat and freezing cold and still scared, but he can’t think what there is to be scared of. Lucy seems to stay awake the whole night, shushes and calms him each time he wakes up, encouraging him to hold on to the pillow the Master’s shirt is hidden under. He worries about it. He doesn’t want Lucy or Ashton to take it.

He startles awake one last time just before the ship’s fake dawn to find the Master looking down at him, the lights slowly brightening. “Master,” he sighs happily, scooting closer. “You’re back.”

“Of course,” the Master says. “You’re a mess.”

“Sorry.” He huddles up next to Lucy, hides his face, suddenly ashamed. “I’m sorry, Master.”

The Master shushes him, pets him a little. He relaxes immediately. “Go back to sleep. When you’re rested, we can go downstairs and clean you up.”

“Yes, Master.”

 

He’s asleep in minutes. The Master heaves a sigh and decides he may as well take a little nap himself. The emergency call, as it turned out, had _not_ been a whiny politician in need of ice cream. It had been fourteen planets declaring a simultaneous rebellion against his rule.


	10. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to bother with the summary on this one. Just assume everything goes wrong again, yeah?

The stairs seem very steep. The Doctor balks, remembering his nightmares— _don’t go downstairs, Lucian’s down there, don’t go—_ but the Master’s right behind him, closing the door. He can do this.

The Doctor nods, swallows, and starts down the stairs. It gets much easier when he realizes the Master’s coming down with him, as all he has to do is concentrate on the backs of the Master’s shoes as he follows him down. Sometimes, blushingly, he lets his gaze move up to the Master’s arse, but never for long. He’s allowed, technically, as the Master’s still clothed, but it _feels_ like he isn’t supposed to.

They arrive, surprisingly quickly, in the water play room, where Lucy’s hosing down a very giggly Callum. The Doctor watches, amused, stripping his clothes off and tossing them in the laundry. He stretches languidly as, smiling, Lucy alternates the steaming spray between Callum’s face and his feet, watching him splutter and roll about in uncontrollable laughter. He only ever gets giddy like that when he’s allowed to come.

“Someone was a good boy, I see,” the Master says. He ushers the Doctor under one of the faucets and turns the water on. It’s cold, and the Doctor huddles into himself, his teeth chattering almost immediately, before the water heats up and he can relax. It feels _wonderful_. He scrubs himself down properly, pausing now and then to turn his face to the water and just stand for a few seconds, then turn around and let the heat run down his back. He shakes himself, droplets of water flinging off his hair and skin at every angle, and opens his eyes.

The Master is watching him attentively, his eyes darker than usual, his small lips puckered ever-so-very-slightly. He’s very still; the Doctor’s seen statues with more mobility. He recognizes that expression. His cock stirs in its encasement at the sight of it.

His tongue darts out to wet his already-wet lips, and he reaches for the soap, lathering himself up more slowly than is perhaps necessary. It feels good, though, washing under the watchful eye of the Master, heat building in his groin as the hot water washes over his skin. His hands are slippery with soap, and they glide so easily, over his chest, his hips, his thighs. He sighs happily, closes his eyes and feels tension drain out of him, endorphins from his mounting arousal blending with the heat of the water, the comforting buzz of the Master’s presence.

 

“Face the wall,” the Master orders softly. The Doctor does, and the Master feels the usual thrill of power at his obedience. He feels a similar thrill as the Doctor stands meekly in place and allows the Master to cuff him to the faucet, eyes closed, his head bowed slightly. His hair’s been getting longer, and it curls over his ears, plastering itself more and more to his forehead as the water pours over him. The Master strokes over it, just once, smoothing the strands away from the Doctor’s face, before closing his fist in the hair at the back of his head and yanking back, exposing the Doctor’s throat and the stubble coating it. The Master allows himself a rare treat and nips at the skin over the Doctor’s Adam’s apple, drags his tongue down to the hollow of the Doctor’s throat, then back up, tasting clean skin and water, short, sharp hairs dragging pleasantly against his tongue. The Doctor’s knees go weak at the sensation; a soft sound escapes from between his lips. The Master chuckles and reaches for the canister of shaving foam on the shelf, guiding the Doctor closer to the wall, out of the spray, heedless of the way it’s now soaking through his clothes. He tilts the Doctor’s head to the left, exposing the right side of his neck and jaw, and murmurs a simple command in his ear—

“Stay.”

The Doctor shivers lightly under his hand, sighing and relaxing slightly as the Master starts spreading the white foam over the side of his face, under his jaw, down his neck. The Master thinks, debating between the various shaving implements on the shelf. Electric is definitely right out; he wants to hear the Doctor’s soft sounds. Might go for the standard razor, but it lacks a certain… something. A certain possessiveness, intimacy. There’s no personal touch.

The Doctor’s eyes open at the sound of the straight razor flicking open, and he shrinks instinctively. The Master knows why, eases his grip on the Doctor’s hair and strokes, shushing him. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just going to give you a little shave, that’s all.”

The Doctor nods, a whispered “Yes, Master” sticking in his throat, but doesn’t close his eyes again, watching the Master’s hand warily as it moves to the side of his face. The blade rasps quietly as the Master slides it gently, slowly, over the Doctor’s jaw, leaving not a hint of stubble or foam behind. As he holds the blade under the water to clean it, he sees the Doctor’s hands, wrapped around the chains of his cuffs, white-knuckled and visibly shaking.

It shouldn’t bother him so much, but it does. He nips the Doctor’s ear delicately, rubs gently at his scalp through the mass of wet hair, utterly indifferent to the fact that these gloves will be even more ruined than usual from all the water. He goes through a pair a day, anyway, since it’s virtually impossible to get lube out of them, and he doesn’t feel it’s worth the effort. “Just a quick shave, Doctor, and then it’s time to play,” he says quietly. “You’re all right, Doctor. All you have to do is stay still.”

 

The Doctor doesn’t feel good. He wishes the Master would put the razor away. Or find a way to _make_ him stay still. As soon as the Master gives the order, he can feel every bone in his body start to tremble. He tries to tell himself the Master won’t cut him, he’s done nothing wrong, the Master isn’t going to hurt him. His trembling worsens.

 

The Master notices. He moves them closer to the wall, letting the Doctor rest his weight against it, tilting his head forward until the left side of his face is pressed into his forearms. He gives him quiet orders to close his eyes, to breathe, reaches between his legs and fondles his balls, rolling and squeezing. The Doctor rises to his tiptoes, but no sound escapes him, not even when the Master’s fingers start to tease his arse. He’s still shaking.

 

The Doctor cringes when he hears the metallic click of the blade again, then something settling on the shelf next to his head. He wants to beg, wants to be asleep for this, wants to be paralyzed again, _something_. What’s the Master doing? He’d love to impale himself on the Master’s fingers, but he can still remember, white walls splattered with red, _his_ red, the Master angry, flicking the razor open and shut again, so angry, no more kisses… The Master places a hand on the Doctor’s temple, steadying him, brushing his thumb through the Doctor’s hair. The razor comes back, but it feels different. Smaller, steadier. In fact, he could swear it’s just a regular razor.

“Better?” the Master asks.

The Doctor doesn’t reply, even though he’d _desperately_ like to say yes. He can’t tell the Master what he likes. Why is the Master asking? He’s not asking. Doesn’t need an answer. Maybe he’s just testing, seeing if he’ll be good. The Doctor can handle that. He decides to be good, _don’t say anything, just be good for your Master and say thank you by being as pretty as you possibly can for him_.

 

The Doctor visibly relaxes as the Master progresses over his left cheek and down his neck. After the first few strokes of the normal razor, while the Master’s cleaning the blade, the Doctor puts that pretty little arch in his back, pushing back against the Master’s hand. Somehow, quite unexpectedly, that simple gesture gives the previously inadequate razor quite the personal touch, and the Master alternates between teasing arse and balls each time he holds the blade under the showerhead to clean it.

The noises start again; soft, desperately soft little whimpers, gasps, half-formed syllables that begin as simple sounds and end with bits and pieces of the Master’s name. They quiet as the Master resumes shaving, but he’s not scared anymore, just waiting to have the Master’s fingers back. Eager but patient, so sweet, and still soft inside from the machine the day before yesterday; the Master can feel it as he teases. The Master finishes his left cheek, guides him to turn around with a hand on the shoulder, and the Doctor bares his throat, eyes still closed, hips twitching minutely along with his trapped erection. “Good boy,” the Master murmurs, and the Doctor whimpers for him. His hips roll, and the arch in his back travels all the way up to his arms, which resettle themselves more comfortably, the deathgrip his hands had on the chains relinquished. The Master pulls the Doctor’s head back by his hair again, still completely indifferent to what the hot water rushing over them both is probably doing to his very expensive suit, and presses his knee into the Doctor’s crotch. The Doctor chokes out another whimper, his lips making those soundless shapes now, and the Master starts to shave up, up, over his throat. A centimeter or so above his Adam’s apple, the Doctor makes another soft sound, and the skin bobs up between the blades. Blood wells up immediately, pink-orange as it runs down his torso.

The Master’s cock stands at abrupt attention, jamming itself rather painfully against his zipper, and he gasps reflexively, hips stuttering in the air. He looks down at himself. If the front of his trousers were any more tented, it’d be splitting at the seams.

The Master finishes the inch or so of shaving left to do, breathing slightly harder than usual, then tosses the razor aside, pulls the Doctor’s head a little further back, and licks up the blood in one broad sweep of his tongue, from navel to the wound itself, which he worries at gently. It’s not serious, and he’d rather not make it any bigger, but he’s getting the definite impression the Doctor wouldn’t mind if he did, from the sounds he’s making. The Doctor does enjoy his Master’s mouth. The Master nibbles at the skin around it, pulls a bit, and licks, tasting blood and water and feeling the Doctor’s moans vibrate against his tongue and his lips and, when he bites, even his teeth. With his free hand, he starts to fumble with his fly; the button comes undone easily, but the zipper takes more persuading, pulled taut by his now slightly painful erection.

Without a word, he spins the Doctor around again, presses him into the wall, not relinquishing his hold on his favorite fucktoy’s hair. He’s now soaked to the bone, and his clothes feel just a bit too tight, damp and clinging to his skin. It’s good everywhere but his throat, so he loosens his tie, undoes a button, pushes his hair back in a shower of little droplets. Better. Much better. Brilliant, in fact.

It gets better still when he teases again at the Doctor’s arse, lines up his cock, starts easing slowly but surely inside. He’s quite sure it hurts, but the Doctor seems in the mood for that today. He’s alternating between a sort of half-hump-half-retreat and a sort of half-yes-more-please-half-get-it-over-with every time he moves those hips. The head of the Master’s cock slips past the second ring of muscle, and the Doctor’s whole body shivers with the sensation, and he doesn’t-quite-scream the Master’s name into his forearms. Then he starts talking.

“OhMasterohyesgodyesMaster, oh, thank you, thank you Master, Master, thank you, Master, yes, pleasemore, ohgodyesmorepleaseMasterpleaseMasterthankyouitsMasterthankyouIcantthankyouthankyouMasterIMaster…” He talks, faster and faster, louder and louder, the pitch of his voice rising higher and higher, until it’s a desperate whine and all he can get out are semi-words and broken phrases and “Master.”

The Master thinks about pointing out that he hasn’t been given permission to talk, but he decides not to. It might freak the Doctor out enough to make him stop, and that is the _furthest_ thing from what the Master wants. When he’s balls deep in his Doctor, he starts to thrust, almost lazily. He’s not _too_ rough—doesn’t want to tear anything—but he’s rough enough that the Doctor will feel him for at least the next few days. He’s missed watching the Doctor squirm every time he sits to try to accommodate the aching in his arse.

“ItheMasteritbnnnnnnnngggguuuunnngggMaster _hurts_ ohgodMasterpleaseyesmoreplease…”

It hurts, then. And the Doctor wants more anyway.

“Perfect little slut,” the Master growls in his ear, hand moving from the base of his cock to the Doctor’s throat, swiping fingers through the blood, ears full of drums and rushing water and the wet slap of flesh against flesh, and there above it all, high and wailing and desperate and so very, very _his_ ,

“MasteryesMasterohMasterIyesMasterMasterIyesMasteritohyesOHMaster _oh god oh yes yes Master please Master thankyou thankyousomuch Master thank you thankyou thankyouthankyou MastIMastitfeelsohMasterah_ …”

 

The hand on his throat moves down, toying with the cage, with his balls, alternately squeezing hard enough to hurt and rolling them in a way designed to make his knees go out from under him. The Master helps him back up, pulling on his hair, lifting with his knees, pinning him to the wall, fucking him faster, and it’s bliss, it’s perfect, warmth and Master and he changed the blade to one that wasn’t scary and the Doctor’s vision is going white with the heat rolling through him in waves, hotter and hotter and hotter and it shouldn’t be possible but he feels it coming, feels the tightening in his balls, feels his cock bruising itself with sheer pressure against the cage, feels the Master in him and his hand on the back of his neck and oh god Master he’s so close but he doesn’t have permission but he can’t _not_ let himself tumble over the edge and fly

 

The Doctor has just had a dry orgasm. So to speak. He’s obviously very thoroughly soaking wet, but he can’t ejaculate with the cage on. There’s no come, just the Doctor’s balls jumping fruitlessly, his pained pleasured pleading voice keening the Master’s name, seemingly unable to make any sounds but those. His whole body goes limp, and the Master holds him up, snarls a vicious, “ _My_ Doctor,” and comes, ever the victor, every moment of the Doctor’s submission another ultimate conquest, every coil of pleasure that leaps through him and propels his come into the Doctor’s body a thing of unutterable beauty. There’s a physical mark of it when the Master returns to his brain, a defined, perfect bite mark on the Doctor’s right shoulder.

He seals up the shaving cut with his screwdriver, but, after a moment’s thought, leaves the bite mark where it is. He has the impression the Doctor won’t mind it being there. Of course, he might be wrong; the Doctor’s still in bliss, his head lolling limply between his dangling arms, his knees barely supporting his weight.

He comes to when the water shuts off. “Good, Master?”

“Oh, yes. Very good, Doctor.” The Master smiles, pets him. He heaves a great, shuddering sigh. “You can open your eyes now.”

The Doctor does, but only halfway, looking at the Master from under heavy lids. “You’re all wet,” he says quietly, with a little grin, which fades into a slight frown. “Hope you don’t get cold.”

“I’ll be all right,” the Master chuckles, and turns around. Callum’s gone, but Lucy’s been watching them the entire time; her mouth is hanging open, and there’s a definite flush of arousal to her cheeks. The Master smirks at her, puts a finger on her chin, and closes her mouth, then brushes past her to get some towels.

 

The Doctor has trouble keeping his eyes off the Master as they walk to the kitchen for a late breakfast. He’s not the only one, either. The rest of the household is finishing their breakfast as they arrive, and the sight of the Master, still damp, his hair disheveled, his tie half-off, the undone button, makes even little Emma slightly flustered. The Doctor’s eyes dart between the Master’s hair, so chaotic and unlike him, and his throat; there are species so rare as to be considered extinct or mythological more frequently seen than the skin there.

The Master knows full well the effect his appearance is having on his little harem, and he does nothing to diminish it. The Doctor thinks he might be preening a little; he walks with just slightly more of a swagger, stretching languidly in front of the pantry door and putting an arch in the small of his back, not unlike the one he expects from his pets. The Doctor’s mouth goes dry and he looks away quickly. Lucy has recovered from her earlier shock, and is sharing the Doctor’s amusement at the stunned and aroused faces around them. The Doctor’s smile falls, though, when he sees Lucian acting as Callum’s footrest under the table. He, too, is aroused, but not like the others are—there’s something unsettling in the steadiness of his gaze, a predatory set to his features. He sees the Doctor watching and leers. The Doctor shies away, busies himself in the fridge. He sometimes feels protective of his fellow slaves, but he’s not felt this way toward the Master in recent memory. Lucian could never hurt the Master, but the look on his face… that says he might try. The Doctor fights off an urge to warn the Master. The Master will be fine, and it’s not the Doctor’s place to speak that way about his fellow captives, even ones he outranks.

Not that he feels much like a captive right now. He used to wonder what it said that he wouldn’t leave this place for the world, that he _didn’t_ leave for the world, but now he’s past caring. Honestly, he doesn’t remember all too much of what his life was like before the Master pinned him down and tamed him. He remembers a lot of running and screaming, a lot of pain and loss, and, most of all, loneliness. He’s always been alone, even before he killed off his own race; they never did like him much. Now, though, he’s got the Master, or rather, the Master’s got him. He can go without shining worlds and cosmic dances and people he’d only lose in the end. The Master is here. The Master has him, and the Master _always_ comes back. That’s all that really matters in the end.

 

The Doctor dreams.

Sometimes, it’s scary. He’s spent entire nights fleeing from Lucian or remembering past punishments, sometimes both, and sometimes worse. He thinks sometimes he remembers what happened the night he tried to punish himself and wound up in the electro room, but any time he tries to think about it when he’s awake, it’s all a vague blur of hurting and sadness and then waking up in the Master’s room. And, of course, sometimes Lucian catches up to him. That one’s always the worst.

He thinks he might not sleep if it weren’t for the possibility of his good dreams. They’re not as frequent as the bad ones, but they’re nice enough that he’s willing to try for one. Each dream is more or less the same; they’re snippets of his favorite memories, strung together and polished and perfect. They start off the same, with the Master pulling back his sheets, telling him it’s time to play, telling him what a good boy he’s been. It warms the Doctor’s hearts, even though he knows it’s just a dream.

 _Such a good boy you’ve been! Time to play, Doctor_ , the dream says. Tonight, the dream asks him to open his mouth; he does, and is allowed to kiss and rub his lips against the front of the Master’s trousers, feel him getting hard through the fabric. Leather hands roam his body, his hands are pinned above his head by his favorite cuffs, and he shivers and thrusts into the air as the Master opens his cage. Then there’s rope and handprints and the head of the Master’s erection in his mouth, and then the Master’s buried in his arse. He’s too open to clench but tight enough that he feels full and stretched, and the paradox makes the Doctor’s head spin. And the Master’s gentle, always gentle, every motion and every sound like the ones he makes during orgasm, idle and rolling and sweet instead of rapid and tense.

The dream feels so real tonight, especially the Master’s hands. His voice sounds real, too. “Dear me, whatever am I going to do with you? You’ll wear me out at this rate. Worth it, though, I think. Doctor? Are you still asleep?”

“Master?” He tries to rub his eyes, but he can’t. His hands are pinned down, like in the dream. There’s no rope around him, though, and his cage is still on. “Dreaming.”

“You certainly were,” the Master chuckles. “Did you know you talk in your sleep sometimes? The things that come out of your mouth... tsk, tsk. Makes anyone want to wake you up with a nice, hard shag. Isn’t it?”

“I should think so,” says Ashton. He sounds a little hoarse. Ashton’s never in the Doctor’s dreams; he must have woken up, like the Master says.

“I just adore the way you say my name. Ashton, why don’t you run downstairs and get us something to eat? There’s a good boy.”

Ashton excuses himself, leaving the Doctor to squirm and shiver under the Master’s hands. He doesn’t really think the Master wants to play, despite the cuffs, until the Master takes him by the upper arms and drags him closer, so that his head is hanging over the edge of his closet. “Head back,” the Master says, and the Doctor obeys with a breathless little “YesMasterofcourseanything.” The Master steps closer and presses his groin, still clothed, against the Doctor’s face, rubs and thrusts and grinds there. The Doctor’s cock twitches so hard in its encasement that his whole body shudders and he releases a quavering moan, unable to resist the urge to press back, nuzzling and taking deep breaths of that elusive scent. He’s pinned and cuffed and naked and he can feel the Master’s cock hardening against his cheek and he can’t help but say “thank you.”

“I think I’ll fuck your throat,” the Master says idly. “Seems like a good start to the morning, don’t you agree?” The Doctor nods eagerly, craning his neck to feel the warmth starting to roll off the Master’s body against his lips. The Master laughs and thrusts, rutting against the Doctor’s face. “You say my name in your sleep sometimes, Doctor, like you’re begging. What’s going on there? Begging in your dreams?”

The Master’s never asked him about his dreams before. “I dream about you sometimes,” he admits, a flush rising to his chest, spreading up his neck and over his face. He’s a little embarrassed, but it’s nice to say it out loud, to tell the Master how he feels without it being wrong.

 

The Master can’t help but take the Doctor’s hair and grind ruthlessly into his face at that little revelation. The Doctor is _his_ in so many ways that even the Master himself can’t keep track of them all. “Open my fly,” the Master commands. “Be my good little fucktoy, Doctor, and know you’re not dreaming now.”

The Doctor shivers and leans up, takes the hem of the Master’s fly in his teeth, and (with some little difficulty) separates button from loop. The zipper goes down more easily, and the Master frees himself from his boxers, thrusting once more against the Doctor’s face. He taps the head a few times against the Doctor’s lips, then yanks on his hair. The Doctor lets his head fall back once more, his throat forming a straight and eminently fuckable line, and the Master barely gives him time to take a breath before he shoves himself in to the root with a growl. If they were free, the Master’s balls would be resting on the Doctor’s cheek about now; it’s a tempting thought, but the Master’s too busy getting a good thrusting rhythm to make it happen. What a way to start the morning.

“Good boy,” the Master says absently, takes the Doctor’s face in his hands and pulls back just far enough to let him breathe and moan, a few desperate gasps punctuated by little whines and muffled vowels, and then pushes back home again. The Doctor swallows and swirls his tongue as best he’s able, but mostly his job is to keep his mouth open and try to stay conscious. He does it well. Even so, by the time Ashton taps gently on the door and enters with a tray of food, the Doctor’s respiratory bypass is running out, his lips are swollen, and black is rolling in from the edges of his vision.

When his eyes close and he goes limp, the Master pulls away, slapping him to force him into awareness. His head snaps to the side with a wet smack of leather on slightly-sweaty-skin and his cheek starts to flush a bright red, panting breaths escaping from his parted lips. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. They wander around the room before settling on the Master’s face; still only partially present, he smiles with a whispered, “Master.” It’s so softly spoken it’s barely even audible, like the way he talks in his sleep.

As clarity returns to his eyes, the Master can’t resist, and pushes home again, not thrusting, just waiting for the halfhearted little points of principle his body calls a struggle to stop. It doesn’t take long before he hears it again. “M—mas—mawstah.” His slightly glassy eyes wander again, falling upon Ashton. He tries to say something.

“Oh, no. The only thing I’m hearing out of you is my name in that _voice._ ” The Master smirks and taps the Doctor’s chin; he opens his mouth wide, and the Master is again buried in him. It’s the most intimate, most possessive, most personal way to choke him the Master has, and he does love getting personal. Besides, the Master usually only chokes him with his hands if he’s being punished, and the Doctor’s been far too perfect recently to justify that.

Soon, the Doctor can only mouth the syllables, but he shows no signs of being unduly stressed. “Good boy,” the Master coos to him, pulling out of the Doctor’s throat and leaving only the head in his mouth. Without having to be ordered, the Doctor seals his lips around it, hollows his cheeks, and starts a slow, thorough suck; the Master thinks at first that the Doctor is simply tired, but there’s no sign of fatigue in him. Quite the opposite. He seems fairly energetic this morning, and he’s using a great deal of that energy trying to drive the Master out of his already dubiously stable mind.

The Master is aware of Ashton, standing nervously beside the door. “Put that down somewhere, won’t you?” the Master says, hears Ashton set the breakfast tray on the floor. It will never be eaten. “Come here.”

Ashton assents and stands behind the Master and to the right, unable to take his eyes off the Doctor’s lips around the Master’s cock. His face flushes, but, obediently, he makes no move to pleasure himself. Obedience deserves a little reward.

The Master pulls out of the Doctor’s mouth. “Doctor, I do think Ashton might like a turn,” he says, grinning. “He’s been kind to you, don’t you think? A very good boy.”

The Doctor hesitates, then nods. He tries to say something, but his throat rebels and he only mouths, “He’s been good, Master.”

The Master puts his hands on Ashton’s skinny waist and moves him to stand in front of the Doctor. His whole body shivers and he closes his eyes, fists clenching, keeping himself from moving. The Master reaches down and fondles the front of Ashton’s trousers, thrusting idly against his thigh now and then as he hardens. “He’s not been playing with anyone else,” the Master says sympathetically, opening Ashton’s fly effortlessly with one hand, his other still on Ashton’s waist. “I think he misses you.”

Ashton sighs a soft “Gunh” sort of sound as his cock twitches in the Master’s always-gloved hand, hard and already dripping. He always did have a soft spot for the Doctor. “Hands,” the Master says, and Ashton holds them behind his back so the Master can take them at the wrist with his free hand, his other tapping Ashton’s cock against the Doctor’s lips. Ashton positively squeals with pleasure, his hips stuttering and jerking reflexively, then nearly howls as the Doctor takes him into his mouth. He knows better than to thrust—he’s allowed with some of the others, but certainly not with the Master’s favorite—and his body trembles with the effort of containing its own urges. Humans are so easily manipulated during sex, but Ashton is well-trained. The Master flicks here, pinches there, smacks in exactly the right spots; Ashton’s hips rock forward a bit, but only the once. He never gives in to the urge to thrust. The Master can feel it swimming around in his hazy brain. Ashton _has_ been well-behaved, so the Master feels he deserves a chance to let go. Particularly thanks to his ability to calm the Doctor.

The Master instructs the Doctor to stop. He does immediately, and Ashton steps back, both of them wearing a rather worried expression. They aren’t generally allowed to play with one another, so it’s understandable. The Master gives Ashton a smirk and strokes the Doctor’s hair; his face is flushed from the blood running into his head. The Master helps him sit up, steadying him with a chuckle as he wobbles dangerously from the head rush. “Whoa,” he says hoarsely, and Ashton can’t suppress a giggle.

The Master realizes he has no idea what the Doctor’s laugh sounds like.

He ushers the Doctor out of his closet, bending him over the edge, tapping at the insides of his heels with the toe of his shoe to get him to spread his legs. The Doctor jumps with a little squeak when the Master’s hand comes down on his arse, but it’s more of a playful smack than a real spank. He shivers lightly when he hears the bottle of lube click open, the slick sounds of it being worked over the taut skin at the head of Ashton’s erection. The Master coats a finger and presses slowly, insistently inside, curling and stroking. The Doctor grunts and rocks uncertainly, probably still sore from the day before; without intervention from August’s magic wand, his voice won’t return to normal for at least a couple of days. The Master adds a second finger, twisting them now in addition to curling, making a V each time he draws back. The Doctor trembles for a moment, then goes limp, his breathing coming in little fits of gasping. “Breathe, Doctor,” the Master reminds him, and he takes a shuddering breath. The stubborn muscles upon which the Master’s working his magic take some convincing, but after a few minutes, he takes a third finger easily. The Master teases and toys for a bit, extracting hoarse, helpless little sounds of pleasure. When he’s had close to his fill (close but never enough never he could tease until the stars went out and the planets died and even the black holes melted away but it would never satisfy his desire for those sounds), the Master withdraws his fingers and instructs Ashton to line himself up.

And at first it’s fine, it’s good, Ashton is flushed and his hands are shaking because he never gets this, never, not with the Doctor, and the Doctor gives a little “Oh!” and wriggles with a little smile, pushing back to let Ashton’s cock melt slowly into him. The Master strokes himself in time with Ashton’s movements, waits until he’s fully inside before he says the magic words, lips pressed against the shell of Ashton’s ear:

“Fuck him.”

Ashton shivers and starts slow. A line of tension starts at the base of the Doctor’s spine, runs up to the back of his neck, spreading like the branches of a tree through his body; the Master puts it down to arousal. He shouldn’t. Ashton shifts his position slightly, half-whispers a “Jesus fucking Christ” and takes the Doctor by the hips, thrusting in earnest. For roughly thirty seconds, it’s blissful abandon, the Master’s fist a blur over his erection, Ashton’s face a picture of ecstasy. For thirty seconds, everything’s fine. It’s good.

And then the Doctor starts screaming.

 

The Master can never quite remember everything that follows. Vaguely, he has an impression of movement and a fountain of blood squirting from Ashton’s nose. He remembers dragging the Doctor out from under his bed by the ankles, Lucy barging in to see what’s wrong. He thinks he told her to get a sedative, and remembers the tinkle of shattering glass and china when she tripped over the breakfast tray by the door.

The Doctor tries to sit up and the Master pins him down, hands flat on the Doctor’s chest, before the Doctor hits him. The Doctor _hits_ the Master. It doesn’t even hurt, but it’s so bewildering it makes the Master let go, and the Doctor has scrambled across the carpet before the Master can get to him again. Ashton’s on the case, though, gripping the Doctor round the ankles as he starts yanking on the ventilation grate between his closet and the bathroom door. Ashton tries to heave him away, lifting him bodily off the ground, but succeeds only in giving him the additional force he needs to finish the job; Ashton’s falling backward, Lucy is pressing the sedative into his hand, and the Doctor’s feet disappear into the vent. Ashton tries to go after him, but the Master yanks him back. The security bots will drive the Doctor out.

Later. They’ve moved to a different room, Lucy’s, he thinks. Banging echoes into the room, growing more distant, then closer. There’s a mechanical whirr (the bot rolling into position), a sharp electrical sound (not unlike a cattle prod), and a bloodcurdling scream (each one makes the hair on the Master’s neck stand up and he has to swallow something sticking in his throat). That’s how they keep track of him. The zap isn’t audible now. The scream is; distant, to the right. He chases the Doctor through the walls.

They’re in the foyer. The sounds of pitched battle are coming from the vent, the stink of blood and oil, a faint air of ozone. This is a dead end. The Doctor won’t be able to double back. Ashton and August pull the grating off and the Master kneels at the entrance. He knows he says something. The Doctor’s name, he feels sure. He doesn’t really remember. He does remember the flashes of light as the shocker on the bot zaps the Doctor, his weakening screams, the wet sounds of impact.

He tells the Doctor to run. He can’t beat it. Just come here, get away from it. Banging and a squelchy, slippery noise, hands skidding on metal through something wet. The Master sees his hands first. His right is obviously broken; his left wrist is at a strange angle. He’s still putting weight on them, and both are slippery with his blood. After that, the Master starts to lose track of his injuries; lacerations and bruises and little black marks and scrapes and then he can’t stand the little yelps the Doctor makes as the bot continues to shock him, so he takes the Doctor’s upper arms and heaves him out, laying him down on the floor. He’s still making soft, hoarse sounds and struggling, but he can hardly manage to lift his arms or his head. The Master sterilizes a little patch over a vein in the crook over his left elbow and plunges the needle in before the Doctor can object, and he’s finally still. August whisks him off to the sick bay. The Master doesn’t watch them go. His eyes are fixed on the security bot, which is sitting at the entrance to the vent shaft demurely. The Doctor’s blood is beaded and streaked on the surface of the black metal, particularly on the round section in the very center; the “eye” in the center seems flat and black in the light, but in the vents, it would have glowed faintly white. In the darkness, it was probably the only thing the Doctor could see. A piece of the Doctor’s fingernail is still wedged between the lens cover and the body. One of the four treads that pulls it through the vents is slightly crooked. Other than that, and the blood still running down in sluggish trails, there’s no sign whatsoever that it ever encountered the Doctor. This had not been a fair fight.

The lens is still staring at the Master. The Master puts his foot through it.


	11. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance.

_Slow. Slow and sweet, his hand in the Doctor’s hair, not gripping or pulling, just resting there, petting idly now and then. The soft sounds of the Doctor’s knees shifting and resettling on the carpet; the wet, rhythmic noises of his mouth on the Master’s cock, punctuated by the occasional gasp for breath. A brief consideration on whether to fuck his throat or let him go slow. Slow. Definitely slow. They had all morning, after all._

_They had all morning, and they used every second of it. When the Master came, after nearly an hour, not a drop of come was left in his balls, not a bone in his body would support his weight. He flopped back on the bed, petting the sweaty, unruly hair languidly with one hand, toying with his own balls with the other, until he heard a soft whimper of purest, deepest, basest_ need _._

_Poor Doctor. So ill used._

 

The Master’s eyes flick open. It’s still dark in his room. He’s cocooned in silk, his sheets and pajamas and his shorts glued to his skin by sweat. He kicks himself free of his sheets, turns over, running his hands through his damp hair. There’s a familiar scent in the air. For a moment, the Master is thrilled. He bolts upright, stumbles out of bed, trips to the Doctor’s closet.

He stops, his hand frozen on the latch. Sniffs delicately. That’s not the Doctor’s scent, it’s his own. A wet dream. Been a while since _that_ happened.

It’s five in the morning. Most of the Toclafane aren’t even awake yet.

He gets back in bed, but doesn’t fall asleep, just lies there, letting his sweat cool on his body, letting his come turn sticky and dry in his pants. He should get up. He should shower. He should dress and go downstairs, get breakfast, and get to work.

Instead, he looks at his own feet, wiggling his toes and staring in fascination, as if he’s never seen the like of them before.

 _I can see your feet_.

He swallows something thick in his throat, rolls over, buries his face in his pillows and just breathes. Breathing is easy. He can handle that for now.

In…

“Master?”

Startled, he sits up abruptly, hand automatically going to his screwdriver on the bedside table. It’s all right, though. It’s only Lucy.

“Morning, Lucy. Awfully bright in here.” He flops back down, blinking in the sudden light.

“It’s nearly ten,” she says softly. She looks worried. How adorable. “Do you want to sleep in?”

He should get up. He should shower. He should dress and go downstairs. Get some breakfast. Get to work.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Another half hour, then come wake me.”

 

She waits half an hour, then comes back with breakfast. He’s awake, staring at the ceiling, a slight frown on his face. “Something wrong, Master?”

Yes. Something is wrong, very wrong, and it can never be right again. “No, I’m fine. Ah, breakfast.”

He hands out the orders of the day between bites of pancake and sips of coffee, neither of which he really tastes. He saves the bacon for last, but doesn’t taste that, either. Everything seems sort of… flat. He doesn’t like it. When he’s finished eating, he sits up on the edge of the bed, asks whether Lucian’s behavior has warranted a little leniency—it has, but only just—and gives Emma to Ashton for the day. It’s important she learns to enjoy playing with the others, too.

Lucy’s on her way to the door. “Lucy.” She turns and comes back; without standing, he spins her around, slips his hands under the hem of her dress, gliding up her thighs to her waist. He pulls her close, one hand moving to her breast, the fingers of the other teasing her cunt, his mouth leaving mark after mark against her neck. If she wonders that he doesn’t fuck her, she doesn’t say anything, just holds on as long as she can until his fingers persuade her knees to go out from under her, pull a cry from her lips. He stands, at last, feeds her his soaked fingers, then leans down to place a gentle kiss on her lips. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For breakfast.”

“You’re welcome, Master,” she replies automatically, slightly startled. He wonders when the last time he kissed her was. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t taste that, either.

 

The plush black leather couch in his inner office sees a lot of use; he works all day, has his meals brought up, and only leaves to play with Ashton or Lucy, leaving the rest to their own devices. Now and then, he’s too tired for the couch, and finds himself waking up in bed, with a dry mouth and a rumpled suit and a vague memory of stumbling up the stairs for his trouble. If he sleeps in, Lucy comes to wake him at half-ten. He never wakes up at eight, like he used to. The alarm on his watch never sounds anymore. There’s no one to set it off.

On the occasion that his watch does make a sound, it’s a high-pitched whistle, the emergency call. Usually, people end up dying as a result, more often than not the people who sounded the alarm. The word is getting out to his planets that he’s very short of temper, although of course they won’t know why. The Master’s underlings are not privy to what goes on in his household.

 

Ashton is very nearly perfect. Slim and pale and very, _very_ good, and he does for a while. The sounds he makes with the Master’s fist in his arse are close enough to _his_ for a few weeks, but one day at 3 AM, when the only sounds are the ship’s engines and the hum of the machine and Ashton’s desperate whimpers at a dildo the length and width of the Master’s forearm, it’s not enough anymore. Ashton’s a good substitute, but he is, in the end, a _substitute_. There’s a mole missing between his shoulder blades. The Master can’t stop staring at where the mole should be. In the end, he just whips Ashton with a three-tailed flogger until he could really be _anyone_.

 

He watches the skin on Ashton’s back knit itself together under August’s magic wand, toying idly with Lucy’s hair. When August has sedated a very jumpy Ashton and gone to bed, Lucy turns in his arms. “You miss him, don’t you?”

The Master pauses, then says softly, “Yes, I do.”

After the little kiss he plants on her cheek, she asks, “Did you put him somewhere special? I went downstairs to… to see him. He wasn’t there.”

He just gives her a weak smile and spins her around, pushes her to the bed, and eats her out until she cries.

 

_It took him so long to stop crying, once he woke up, and he had to be coaxed to do everything. The Master let him walk to the water play room wrapped in his sheets, then petted and shushed him until he stepped out of them, into the shower. Further persuasion was required before he washed himself, and it took half an hour to get him from his towel to his clothes. Even after he was sedated, when the Master turned the lights off for bedtime, he screamed._

The Master wakes when Lucy, eyes wide and frightened, shakes his shoulders gently. She immediately retreats out of electrified-baton range; the Master can’t think why, until he remembers that thing about the no-touching and the hours of punishment. “Oh. No, Lucy, it’s all right. Come here.” He holds out his hands, arms outstretched, and pulls her down for a kiss. “I’m not going to hurt you. Is it half-ten?”

She nods in the affirmative.

“Thank you for waking me, darling girl. Have you eaten? No? Let’s get breakfast.”

 

It’s as if the Master’s broken into pieces and given each of his slaves a shard. Lucy gets his affection; she gets his sweet kisses and his gentle hands. Little Emma sees his wrath; she stumbles into him one day and can’t speak a word without a stutter for a week. Callum and Sarah share his perfectionism, his appreciation for the finer things; not a meal is anything less than gourmet, and the entire ship is clean of a single mote of dust. Lucian sees his cruelty; Emma’s punishments are thorough, but Lucian’s are innovative. (The Master is particularly proud of finding a way to take that idiom about the skin of one’s teeth quite literally.) August receives his professionalism, and is authorized to make decisions about the household on his behalf. Allison is bewildered at first, but soon learns to laugh at the Master’s somewhat strained attempts at humor.

Ashton is the vessel of his lust. At least, for a while. When the Master realizes that Ashton’s arsehole has become so dilated that he can take both of the Master’s hands without lube, he decides it’s time for a break. Ashton accepts it gratefully. Unlike the man he’s standing in for, he has no reservations about staying in the sick bay.

The Master still can’t taste Lucy’s kisses.

 

It’s nearly a month after the Master broke the security bot before he opens the closet again. He stands and stares for a while, stares at how empty it is, how empty it always will be. No long limbs to give shape to the flat sheets; no dark hair to muss against the pillow. It hurts the Master in a way he never thought would be possible to see the emptiness of the closet. The Doctor’s closet. It’s still the Doctor’s, even though the Doctor isn’t in it and never will be again.

 

 _“I_ can’t _, Master, I’m sorry, I can’t stop… Are you angry? Please don’t hurt me, please. I can’t… stop…”_

_“It’s all right, Doctor, I’m not angry that you’re crying. Just try to breathe.”_

_“Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe or sleep or wake up, can’t think, I can’t do anything. Master… please… Master…”_

_“Hush, it’s all right. It’s all right, now. I’m not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you, Doctor.”_

_“Going to play?”_

_“No, not until you’re better.”_

_That sets off a fit of screaming and thrashing that gets the Doctor sedated and strapped down again. He doesn’t actually seem to mind, just stares dazedly between any bits of the Master he can get his eyes to focus on and the ceiling._

_When his injuries have healed, the Master has him brought back up to his closet. It is then nearly impossible to convince him to leave it, or to lie down, or even to close his eyes. The Master is woken, now and then, by the whisper of his name to the dark, the sounds of muffled sobbing._

_The Doctor stops eating. He says the smell makes him feel sick. So does standing and speaking and ever allowing so much as a toe outside of the sheets he keeps tucked tightly around himself at all times. It’s difficult for even the Master to lift them. Any attempt by the Master to ask him what’s wrong is met with a glassy-eyed stare, which is usually followed by tears._

_The Master doesn’t look at their faces when he declares the Doctor broken. He usually does, wants to note how they all react so he can make use of it later, but he doesn’t care this time. Most of them cry, though. He can hear them. It makes sense. The Master has them all discipline one another; with the exception of Ashton (who forgave him long ago) and, occasionally, Lucy (who was never angry), the Doctor has never had to hurt anyone._

_“Doctor? Are you listening? This is very important.”_

_“Yes, Master. Of course.” He rubs his cheek against his pillow, dark eyes boring into the Master’s to show his attentiveness._

_“You’re not well. You haven’t been for a long time, so I’m going to put you to sleep tomorrow.”_

_“Sleep, Master?” He cocks his head slightly. “What kind of sleep?”_

_“A very deep sleep,” the Master says softly, stroking his cheek. “It won’t hurt.”_

_“When I wake up, will we play?” He sounds almost hopeful, like he always does when he asks, but the Master knows better than to latch on to that ray of hope. Hope is a terrible thing. It only hurts in the end._

_“You aren’t going to wake up this time.”_

_The Doctor looks at him for a long time, finally understanding, and he says softly, “Thank you, Master.”_

_As with Milla and every broken slave before, the Doctor is entitled to a last request. Part of the Master hopes that there will be enough of the Doctor left to request something like bread for the starving or freedom for one of his fellow captives, but he knows better. If there were enough of the Doctor left for that, he wouldn’t have to die._

_When the Doctor wakes on the morning of his execution, he knows what he wants. It takes him until after lunch to say it aloud, though. “M-Master?”_

_“Yes, Doctor?” The Master hasn’t stopped petting him since he woke up._

_“I’ve decided. On my request. Is it all right if I tell you what it is now?”_

_“Of course.”_

_He swallows thickly, tears forming in his eyes. “When… before… when I…” His breath hitches, and he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Before I was… was bad… when you put me to bed…” He has to take several deep breaths before the words find their way out. “You used to kiss me goodnight. Is it all right if, if when I go to sleep this time, if you could…?” He hides in his sheets again, terrified, though of what, the Master couldn’t say. He’d be dying at midnight. What could scare him?_

_“Your last request is a goodnight kiss?”_

_“Y-yes, Master. Wou-would you like me to, to choose something else? I hadn’t thought of anything else, but if that’s not… if a kiss wouldn’t be… wouldn’t be okay, I’m sure I could… could…”_

_“Of course it’s all right, Doctor, hush, now, hush. It’s all right. Of course it is, you’ll have your kiss.”_

_The Master wonders what the Doctor had in mind. A guillotine? A firing squad? He wonders because of the Doctor’s surprised features when he sees the hypodermic—small, slender. The Master uses a very efficient poison. The tip is coated with an analgesic, so he won’t even feel it going in. The Master is finished causing the Doctor pain._

_The Master tucks the Doctor in, never takes his hand from the side of the Doctor’s face. The Doctor cries quietly, whispering the words “Thank you, Master” over and over and over._

_“Head back,” the Master says softly. The Doctor obeys, and the syringe glides effortlessly under his skin, into his jugular, with nary a pinch. “There we are. Feel anything?”_

_“No, Master, thank you, thank you…”_

_Steady, slow pressure on the syringe. A moment later, the Doctor’s eyes start to droop._

_“Goodnight, Master,” the Doctor whispers._

_“Goodnight, Doctor,” the Master replies. He bends his head, kisses those lips. They’re eager at first, moving against the Master’s gently, then so softly he can barely feel them at all; the Master parts from them, strokes the Doctor’s hair._

_He gives his final order. “Sleep well.”_

_The Doctor’s eyes are almost entirely black as his pupils bloom into the brown of his irises. His lips are moving. A sound too quiet even to be a whisper escapes from them._

_“ThankyouMaster and I love…”_

_The hypodermic stops._

_The Doctor is still._

_And the Master is alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's okay. Everything is gonna be okay. Breathe deeply.


	12. Sleeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master and Lucy have a misunderstanding, and everything goes... wait... no, actually, a good thing happens this time.

The Master had forgotten what the Doctor looked like when he was well and truly still. He recalls when he carried his Doctor up the stairs and actually enjoyed seeing him like this. So limp, so… pliant. Peaceful.

He doesn’t try to talk to the Doctor. The Doctor can’t reply, or even hear him. But he does stay there, he doesn’t know for how long, just touching, as he used to. Not just his face or his hair, but his hands, too. The Master is very familiar with the way the Doctor’s wrists feel in his grip, but he’s not so well acquainted with his hands. Has the Doctor always had this many fingers? Have these hands always been so slender, so beautiful?

He thinks, probably, he ought to go back to bed. But he can’t. He keeps touching, stroking, in a way that would have driven the Doctor absolutely wild if he could have felt it. Perhaps that’s what he’s hoping for. Perhaps, if he teases his way up the inside of a thigh, perhaps if he squeezes just _there_ , the Doctor will wake up and murmur his name, perhaps—

A strangled scream interrupts his wishful thinking. He looks up just in time to see Lucy stumbling away from him, heading for his bedroom door.

“Lucy?” he calls. “What’s wrong?” He leaps to his feet with some difficulty—his legs have fallen asleep—and goes after her. She has the door open and is just about to start down the stairs when he catches her sleeve and yanks her back. He expects resistance, but instead of fighting, she shuts down; his questions are met with silence and a shake of her head, _no, no, no_. He puts a hand on her shoulder, trying to turn her to face him, and she tries to shake it off, shuddering at his touch. “Lucy, tell me what’s wrong, I _promise_ I will help you, but tell me—”

“You,” she says, almost too quietly to hear. “You’re wrong.”

The words strike him more deeply than a physical blow ever could, and he releases her. Lucy _never_ speaks to him like that. She hasn’t said a word against him in two hundred years, not when he slaughtered billions, not when he wiped out entire civilizations, not when he enslaved the children of her own species, and _now_ he’s done wrong? He’s still blocking the door, but he doesn’t stop her when she stumbles into the furthest corner from him. “What did you say?”

Even from across the room, he can see the tears start to fall. “I could handle it, I could live with _you_ and everything you are, as long as I knew… as long as I thought… that you weren’t…” She levels a shaking finger at the entry to the panic room, the doorway next to his bed. “…that there was something you wouldn’t… wouldn’t sink to.” She loses control completely, and her next words are screams, “But he’s dead, he’s _dead_ and you’re _fucking_ him, you broke your favorite and you _killed him_ and it’s still not enough, _you’re fucking him, you monster, you MONSTER_!”

“Lucy, that isn’t—I’m not—” He moves toward her, intending to attempt some kind of comfort, but he’s interrupted by her taking one of his toys off the wall and throwing it at his head. (Her aim is spectacularly off, and it would be hilarious if not for the situation.) Not Lucy. He’s lost the Doctor. Not Lucy, too. Any of them but Lucy, not Lucy screaming _don’t touch me_ , not Lucy shrinking away from him as the Doctor had done. Anyone but Lucy, the last vestige of his affection. Screaming that he’d forced the Doctor to love him, and when he’d loved too much he had to die, and even that was no escape. _No escape from the monster, the Master, the necrophiliac._

After the second-largest plug goes sailing right past his ear, the Master takes the hint and backs off. Her aim is improving. “Lucy, go look. Look at him. I won’t touch you. Please, just go look.”

Lucy does, back against the wall, watching him warily as she ducks into the panic room. The Master approaches gingerly, making sure he’s visible, but not blocking the door. Lucy keeps staring at the Master, apparently afraid to get any closer to the Doctor. “Go ahead, take a look,” he says.

Reluctantly, she does, her hand going up to cover her mouth, stifling a sob. “This is sick. You’re _sick_ , you—”

“There’s no refrigeration,” the Master interrupts. “He’s not frozen, he’s not even cooled. He hasn’t been embalmed. Touch him.” Lucy has to keep herself from vomiting at that, so he’s spared further screaming, but he can see from the look of absolute horror on her face that those were the worst words he could have chosen. Before she can recover the use of her voice and start insulting him again, he says dryly, “While it is true that I like to watch, I don’t mean sexually. If he’s in stasis, there will be a slightly charged quality to his skin, like a live wire.”

“I’m not interested in how you’re keeping your favorite corpse fresh,” Lucy snaps.

“Lucy, I feel compelled to remind you that I do not respond well to insults,” he says coldly. How _ungrateful_ she is. “If you were anyone else in my household, I wouldn’t be attempting this explanation, and you would be bleeding to death in agony on the floor of the White Room for your accusations. Touch. His. Skin.”

Fear replaces her defiance, and, trembling, she crouches next to the Doctor’s body, rests her hand gently on his. “No stasis field,” she whispers. Her eyes widen. “He’s warm.” Lucy takes a knee and places two fingers gently on his neck, and then says quietly, “I can’t feel, my hands are shaking. Is he…?”

The Master sits on the edge of the mattress, next to her, and steadies her hand in his own, moving it to the Doctor’s chest, letting her feel the light flutter of his heartsbeat. Her breath catches audibly. “I couldn’t kill him,” the Master murmurs, leaving Lucy’s hand where it is and trailing fingers over the Doctor’s dry, parted lips. “He’s only ever been, ah, asleep. I didn’t want to share.” He smiles, crookedly. No teeth. The Doctor’s smile.

She’s still crying, although she’s obviously relieved to know that the Master does not, in fact, fuck dead people, and that the Doctor’s still alive. The Master wonders whether it’s that happy crying thing. The Doctor told him about it once. Humany-wumany. “Can you wake him up?” Lucy asks.

“Technically.”

“But you won’t.”

“I can’t allow him to live like that. Broken.”

“Can _you_ live with him like this?”

At the moment, he doesn’t think so, but it’s only natural that it should take some time to adjust. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

 

After paying for her insults, Lucy gets permission to tell the others that the Doctor is still alive, merely asleep. Their reactions vary. August seems to feel that it’s unfair for the Doctor to be kept alive in that condition, though obviously she doesn’t say anything critical of the Master. Allison, Sarah, and Callum are simply glad he isn’t suffering. Lucian and Emma don’t seem to have an opinion, Lucian out of coldness and Emma out of terror.

Ashton doesn’t say much, at least when Lucy gives them the news. Later, when the Master’s going over some casualty statistics, he glances up at the security monitors and sees them talking. Well, Lucy’s talking. Ashton appears to be sobbing uncontrollably. Curiously, the Master tunes in, glad for the distraction.

“— _not_ a good idea.”

“But I don’t w-want to _do_ anything, I don’t want to… I mean, I don’t expect the Master to, you know, share, or to let me play or anything, I just wanna _see_ him. Can’t I see him? Just once? One time, can I see him, just so I know it’s real, that he’s really alive?”

“I really don’t think it would be appropriate to ask.”

“Are you afraid he’ll punish you again? You can tell him it was my fault, that I told you to, or… or I could ask him myself. He can’t blame you for that.”

“What, violate the chain of command? Not only will he deny your request, Ashton, he will _not_ be amused that you broke that particular rule. I’m sorry.”

 

Every part of him is so _soft_. It’s impossible to resist the impulse to touch, so the Master doesn’t try. Each day, he checks the IV lines for infection, and as he minutely examines the skin around each needle for swelling or bruising or pus, he brushes his thumb over the Doctor’s bicep, paddles his fingers gently in the flesh of his forearm. When he checks that the Doctor’s pupils are still responsive, he cradles the Doctor’s head in his lap, strokes his hair, places little kisses on his eyelids as he closes them; he ensures the monitors are still in their proper places on his chest and rubs lightly over his hearts before moving down to see that the catheter is correctly positioned.

It invariably is, and the Master invariably runs his hands up and down the Doctor’s thighs, over his increasingly prominent hipbones, up his sides, settling on his face, tilting his head this way and that to allow the Master to plant more silent, sweet kisses; his neck (which allows the Doctor’s head to roll limply), his cheeks (he looks so strange with his facial hair growing out), his lips (but not very much, because they never kiss back and the Master’s hands always tremble when he pulls away).

Every day, the Master goes over the logs from the Doctor’s monitors, making sure he doesn’t need a ventilator or other life support systems, and as he reads, he trails his fingers idly over the Doctor’s shoulders. And every day, he gives the Doctor his best attempt at a smile, congratulates him. “Still breathing, eh. Good. That’s a good boy. Always good for me, aren’t you? I hope you’re sleeping well. One of us has to.”

The hardest part is bathing him, because it reminds him of before, when the Doctor would make soft sounds as the cloth moved over something sensitive, when he’d look up at the Master with those dark eyes and smile whenever the Master met them. And then, when the Master dried him off, he would sigh quietly and adjust himself, curl up under the sheets.

But now, there’s nothing. He’s silent and neutral and still.

It’s getting harder and harder to leave.

 

He’s eating dinner, discussing the possibility of getting the ingredients for something like tacos or enchiladas with Sarah, when the alarm on his watch goes off. It’s not the emergency call.

He stops mid-sentence and sprints upstairs; Lucy and Ashton follow to the bottom of the staircase, Lucy looking slightly concerned and Ashton looking sick with worry. They don’t dare to go up after him.

 

The Master skids to a halt next to the Doctor’s mattress, taking in the vital signs from the monitors. His respiration has slowed twenty percent, and it brought his blood oxygen level down with it. With trembling hands, the Master fits an O2 mask over his face (after one last shaky, delicate kiss to the Doctor’s dry lips) and watches his vitals slowly return to normal.

“Good boy,” he whispers, and runs all his checks again. They’re all clear. He’s fine. The Doctor’s alive, breathing, relatively healthy.

Isn’t he?

The Master takes a small blood sample and rings August, telling her to prepare a full body scan for the Doctor. When she sounds back that she’s ready, he disconnects the Doctor from the myriad of tubes and wires and picks him up, cradling his body as gently as possible, then carries him downstairs. Ashton is sitting on the floor outside of the sick bay, crying. “I’m sorry, Master, I wanted to… to see him.”

“Yes, I know,” the Master answers. After a moment, he says, “You can come in, if you like. The scan will take half an hour or so. Stay with him a while.”

Ashton gasps and scrambles to his feet, thanking the Master breathlessly. He hovers in the background as the Master settles the Doctor on the scanner’s table, replacing the oxygen mask. At August’s urging, he pulls a chair up, and the Master sits in front of the computer to start the scan. As he does, Ashton starts murmuring to the Doctor, trying not to cry.

“Hello again. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? You’re getting a bit of scruff, there, you look awfully different. Not bad different, though, kind of fuzzy, like—” The scan starts, and the machine starts humming and thumping noisily, so the Master can’t hear him anymore. Good. No distractions. He watches the analyses begin to appear on the screen and hands August the Doctor’s blood sample.

“What should I run it for?”

“Everything.”

Ashton talks to the Doctor for the whole test, which reveals that the Master needs to increase the volume on the nutritional drip (the blood test confirms) and that the Doctor’s entire musculoskeletal system is starting to atrophy from lack of use. It’s only to be expected, but the Master’s hands tremble nonetheless, and he has to force away thoughts of what might have happened if he hadn’t run these tests.

 

“This always used to relax you,” the Master murmurs, toying lightly with the Doctor’s hair, as he always does. “Can you feel it? Somewhere in there, do you know?” One at a time, he checks the Doctor’s eyes. “Good boy.” The Master pauses, waiting instinctively for the Doctor’s little grin or shiver of pleasure, a reaction that had become automatic, reflexive, like the contraction of his pupils or the arch in his back. Nothing happens. “You used to like it when I called you that. Do you still?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer. The Master had rather gotten used to that. The Doctor, after all, wasn’t allowed to tell him what he liked. Liked. Is that past tense?

“Do you like this, Doctor?” The Master traces the shell of the Doctor’s ear. “Can you hear me?”

The Doctor’s chest rises and falls.

“Doctor?”

He waits again, waits for the Doctor to stir lightly, his eyes to flick open and the soft, immediate sigh of the Master’s name. Once again, nothing.

The Master wipes his sleeve across his eyes before the tears can fall and moves on, checking the tiny sticky electrodes on the Doctor’s chest, rubs over the skin, counting ribs with his fingertips. “You liked this, too, I think. Any time I touched you, unless it was to… to…”

 

 _The first time the Master takes out the straight razor, the Doctor actually laughs. He used to have such arrogance. “Yeah, going to have to call_ that _bluff.”_

_The Master raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”_

_“Mmmmm. You’ve tortured me before, but you’d never go that far. Not with me. Because for all you threaten and posture and carry on, you couldn’t function without me around. You’d never risk killing me.”_

_“No, I wouldn’t.”_

_The Doctor smirks, on the very cusp of an acerbic remark about the Master’s predictability, when the Master draws a neat line from the Doctor’s shoulder down his collarbone, all the way to the hollow of his throat. The Doctor screams, and when he meets the Master’s eyes, there is no trust there, no warmth, no affection. Only hollow fear and… hurt. Betrayal._

_“No risk. I’ve had plenty of practice.”_

_It’s a long time before the Doctor meets his eyes again._

The Master decides to start giving the Doctor a little physical therapy. Nothing much, just stretching him a little, gently, and a nervous stimulation wand, to flex his muscles. The regimen doesn’t exactly keep him “fit” by any remotely respectable standard, but it does prevent the Doctor’s body from atrophying entirely. It will, of course, be easier to keep the Doctor alive if he’s as close to normal as possible, but if he’s honest, the Master first came up with the idea because the Doctor was becoming progressively less and less… soft.

The state of the Master’s empire continues to decline, and he finds that, rather than becoming dull or irritating as he anticipated, the therapy routine becomes quite a welcome distraction. Each day, after his regular checks, the Master takes an hour or so to take the Doctor in hand and bring him slowly, slowly back to health. It’s difficult to stay concerned about the ever-increasing number of open rebellions breaking out when he can feel muscle mass reconstructing itself in the Doctor’s limbs.

He also discovers how very relaxing it is to have someone to talk to about rebellions and the crushing thereof. Not that he never sees the others, but the only person besides the Master who’s allowed to hear about the outside world is Lucy. She gets very tense about these things, and passes that tension to the Master. She doesn’t do so consciously, of course. It’s simply that she almost never has any idea how to address such problems, and unless pressed, she will simply assume that the Master will take care of it and give it no further consideration. The Doctor makes no such assumptions.

It’s rather taxing, at times, being the one in charge, but he nonetheless prefers domination to subservience, even considering the weight of the endless duties and expectations of authority; control, pure, unadulterated, uncompromising, not just of others, but oneself. He wonders if any of them, even Lucy, understand that rules apply quite as much to the Master as to any of them, albeit somewhat differently. His pets and playthings have the luxury of not being accountable to themselves; with the Master to provide it for them, they have no need of self-discipline. Not at first, anyway. Eventually, they all develop a thorough understanding of their place, enforcing in themselves something they once needed the Master to provide. It’s rather a proud moment.

Unless, as sometimes happens, the means required to reach that understanding render his pupils unable to understand anything else. The Master wonders what it was in the Doctor that kept him from the kind of acceptance Lucy, Ashton, and August have: the simple acknowledgment of their place and purpose without allowing themselves to be consumed by it. He wonders whether it could be fixed.

He wonders. Then he looks down at the Doctor, smoothes his hair away from his forehead, and forces himself to stop wondering.

 

_He opens his eyes slowly, recoiling instinctively when the Master lays a hand on his shoulder. “Please,” he whispers, turning his face away, his severely chapped lips brushing the concrete and leaving little red smudges behind. “Not again, please.”_

_“I haven’t told you to beg,” the Master reminds him. “Turn over.”_

_The Doctor’s breath catches and he squeezes his eyes shut, trembling from head to toe. He doesn’t move, so the Master turns him over. In deference to the marks all over his body and the fact that he has now been in this cell for three weeks, the Master is relatively gentle with him. The Doctor is either too exhausted or too terrified to fight, so the Master doesn’t need to pin him down, or beat him, or even threaten him._

_When it’s done, the Doctor starts to cry. “There’s no need for that,” the Master chides him gently. “No tears. All done now, and you were a very, very good boy.”_

_The Doctor’s sobbing redoubles. The Master shushes him, pets his hair, to no avail. The Master decides to let him cry and leaves, returning a few hours later, expecting to find the Doctor asleep. He’s not. He’s still crying. There’s hardly any water in him left for tears, and his eyelids are so swollen that he must barely be able to see, if at all._

_Ashton was the Master’s only other pet in those days. He and Lucy care for the Doctor, under the Master’s watchful gaze. The Master can read the conflict in the Doctor’s face: so exhausted, so beaten, that any struggle is totally impossible, and he therefore has literally no choice but to obey. He’s never been confronted so powerfully with the rewards of obedience before._

_Because he’s good, the Master lets him return to his room, with Ashton, that night. They used to sleep together. The Master visits a very sleepy Doctor, who seems slightly bemused by the sheets and pajamas. He’s even more bemused by the slow, thorough sweetness of the goodnight kiss, and returns it from sheer surprise. It’s the first time he has ever kissed back. When the Master pulls away, he has an almost drugged look about him, heavy eyelids and parted lips. The Master likes it, so he kisses the Doctor again. And again. Ashton slips into bed next to him, and, after the Master’s nod of approval, moves hesitantly closer; the Doctor gasps, delighted, and positively burrows into him before craning his head back and up and kissing Ashton delicately on the lips._

_Ashton is stunned, and looks anywhere but at the Master, waiting for the inevitable punishment. It doesn’t come. The Doctor’s eyes are unfocused, hazy, confused. He looks down at himself, then to Ashton, then to the Master, uncomprehending. “Go to sleep,” the Master says. The Doctor nods once, turns his face into Ashton’s chest, and is out like a light._

_Ashton holds him, relaxing when he understands that no punishment is forthcoming. Soon, he’s asleep, too. The Master watches the Doctor sleep for a while, just to see the little smile gracing his face._

The nightmares don’t wake the Master up anymore.

They do, however, inspire him to little kindnesses. He reassigns Emma to Sarah, so she can learn more about her favorite activity (cooking). August is allowed to select someone to take over for her now and then in the sick bay, so she doesn’t _always_ see the worst of what comes with living here. (Callum volunteers for that.) Something in the way Allison and Lucy treat one another makes him… well, he doesn’t quite know, but it’s a rather unpleasant feeling that doesn’t go away until he moves them into the same room and effectively gives them to each other.

And, most importantly, he allows Ashton to come up and see the Doctor, any time he wants, to help the Master care for him. Ashton scoops the Doctor up and holds him close while the Master strips the sheets away, laying down towels; it’s Ashton who sets him gently back down, first on his stomach, then his back, so the Master can wash him clean. Ashton is the first to notice the bedsores, draping the Doctor over his knees and whispering soothing words while the Master heals them. He thinks of things that never even occurred to the Master. He reads to him, tells stupid jokes, closes his eyes and leans in and whispers something, over and over. Simple. Three syllables. Three words.

Ashton falls asleep next to him, one evening, his arm draped over the Doctor’s chest, face buried in the Doctor’s shoulder. The Master should wake him and send him downstairs, but instead, he watches them, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Doctor’s smile.

 

It was inevitable, of course. He just wishes it had taken longer.

The strangest part of it isn’t the Doctor’s stillness, or navigating around the medical hardware. Oh, those are strange, to be sure. But they aren’t what bothers him most.

Nor is it the simplicity, how _easy_ it is. With his nervous system all but cut off from his body, the Doctor is completely relaxed, accepting the Master’s careful, lubed finger without the slightest resistance. No clenching, no flexing, nothing. This is a little unusual, to be sure, but it has happened, on occasions when the Doctor’s been on muscle relaxants or so thoroughly fucked that even his autonomic nervous system concedes.

The strange thing, the fundamentally wrong thing, is the _silence_.

The Doctor’s breathing doesn’t change; it doesn’t hitch in his chest, doesn’t escape in soft sighs. There are no whispers, no whimpers, no babbled streams of pleas and gratitude. Crooking his finger and dragging slowly out of the Doctor doesn’t produce the shameless moans of pleasure it ought to.

But even these are not enough. They weigh on him, sadden him, make him long for simpler times, but they can’t compel him to _this_.

“Doctor, please, please, just…”

Those little silences, sounds of lust and need taken from their rightful places, don’t have the strength to wrench these sobs from deep within him.

“Say it, Doctor, just say it! Say it!”

The Doctor breathes, still and silent.

“Please?

Just once?

Please, Doctor?

I’ll set them free. All of them. All right?

Doctor?

Not just… not just my pets, Ashton and Lucy and the rest. _Everyone_.

If you’ll just say it. Once. _Once_. Please.

I’ll undo it, Doctor, unmake all of this. Unmake the Paradox Machine.

Doctor?

You can have your freedom, your TARDIS, anything. Anything.

Me. You can have me, if you want.

Doctor, please. Please say my name.

My name, Doctor. Please. _Please_ , Doctor, just once.

It’s meaningless without you to use it.”

 

The Master hasn’t cried himself to sleep since he was a child. He feels like one, waking up the next morning, rubbing his reddened eyes with the heels of his hands. He wonders for a few moments what woke him, until the alarm on his watch screeches again.

It is seven thirty-one in the morning. The Master covers the Doctor in his sheet again, glancing over his vitals, then stands and stretches. Whoever this is better have a spectacular reason for waking him.

 

He doesn’t.

He’s the governor of a rather insignificant planet the Master conquered in the space of two short, bloody weeks. In the scheme of things, it’s just a midpoint, between a major asteroid mining operation and one of the refineries, that the cargo ships use to refuel. It isn’t rich, or heavily populated, or the source of any natural wealth. No persons of note live there; there are no factories or major operations of any kind.

Or, to put it another way, it’s a tiny little town with a population of about 400 that sprung up around a moderately convenient gas station. The governor of this gas station, who had bothered the Master before, decided that the way the people had of rising up against him in violent riots on a nearly daily basis was really the Master’s fault for not sending any food. As far as the Master is concerned, it’s the governor’s own bloody fault for not allotting any land or personnel for farming operations on his damn planet. If the land weren’t arable, he should _trade_ for food, like everyone else. As for the populace, how could they fail to overthrow a governor that idiotic?

The Master orders the gas station (planet) and its residents (five hundred million) to be repurposed as an automated fueling station (obliterate every form of life from orbit, retrieve useful materials, and replace everything with a load of machines and a skeleton crew for defense and maintenance).

The governor is extracted by a freshly minted special-ops team, as their very first assignment, and tortured to death on live intergalactic video over the course of the next week. At the end, the Master plays a tape of himself, reminding his subjects that the degree of autonomy they _do_ have in custom, commerce, and local affairs is a luxury, and he will not trifle with those who waste his time.

 

Even though he really doesn’t need to be, as the Doctor doesn’t need to be soothed or teased, the Master is quite gentle, even considerate. The Doctor is always draped over pillows, in a way that would be comfortable if he were able to feel it; the Master pets his hair rather than pulls it; he’s generous with the lubricant, and always enters slowly, almost comically so.

When the Master’s cock is buried in the unconscious Doctor as deeply as it will go, the Master pauses to stroke and rub the soft skin of the Doctor’s back and thighs, nipping carefully at nearby freckles and soothing them with his tongue, wondering all the while why he denied himself the taste of the Doctor’s skin for so long. As the heat coils tighter in his groin, he begins to thrust, long and slow and deep, taking his time.

He’s still not used to the silence, but it’s easier to put it out of his mind now, just pretend that the Doctor is fine. His throat is sore, that’s why he doesn’t speak, and of course he won’t move if his muscles ache. He’s simply tired. Awake, alive, healthy, aroused, just tired. He can feel his Master, loves the way the swollen head of his cock drags slowly over the rippled ridge just inside his arse, loves the feel of the Master’s lips and teeth and tongue against his skin. But it’s been a long day. He can’t keep his eyes open, and the Master doesn’t expect him to.

 

“ _Do… not… mock… me.”_

The Master emphasizes each word with another blow. He’s angry. Oh, yes, very, very angry. What has she done?

Emma’s lips make more silent shapes, words catching in her throat, and he remembers.

_His eyebrows arch delicately above closed eyes, his mouth open and making vague shapes to go with his vague sounds, a picture of ecstasy._

She’s mocking him, mocking his loss, mocking the Doctor’s state, his stillness, his brokenness. His shoulder aches, but he keeps striking her until there’s a pool of blood spreading across the floor, each blow a wet _smack_ , until his arm simply refuses to rise and fall once more. The kitchen is silent but for the sound of Callum and Lucy crying; Emma’s been unconscious for… for how long? How long has this gone on? When he realizes how completely he’s lost control of himself, he starts with a gasp, falling backward and letting the object in his hand clatter to the floor.

He’d wrenched the leg off a chair, and had been beating her with it.

“Is she still alive?” he asks, hoarse from shouting at the petite, bloody figure on the floor. (What did he say? How long did it take?)

He tries to get his bearings, paying attention to his surroundings only on occasion. No time. _No time_. He takes deep breaths, struggling to regain the most fundamental of his senses: the instinctive, intuitive grasp of time possessed not only by Time Lords, but every form of multicellular Gallifreyan life. _Insects understood this,_ the Master thought furiously to himself, watching Callum take Emma’s pulse. _Calm down. Get a hold of yourself. You are the Master, Lord of Time, ruler of all he sees._

Nothing. He glances round for a clock, but there aren’t any. Why would there be? He’s never needed one. His _watch_ doesn’t even tell time, so fundamental is this sense, this understanding of the ebb and flow of eternity.

Emma’s alive. August is carrying her away.

He feels ill, and rises slowly, pretending not to notice the way everyone flinches away from him. Everyone, that is, but for Lucy. She’s at his side in an instant, helping him to his feet, ushering him gently to the staircase. He trudges upstairs, knowing instantly that she’s right. He needs a Doctor.

 

Ashton is with him. The moment he sees the Master, he scrambles away, terrified by the deadened, icy look on the Master’s face. But it’s not one of his slaves the Master is so furious with. It’s himself, and it’s a rage he can’t exorcise without violating the inviolable laws he’s set for himself.

Miserable, exhausted, terrified by his lack of self-control and the urges toward self-harm now coursing through him, the Master slumps onto the Doctor’s mattress and closes his eyes.

 

He awakes to the Doctor.

The wrong Doctor, the still, silent, broken Doctor. The Master heaves a sigh and rolls closer to him, unwilling to leave his favorite pet’s side despite his physical needs for the loo and breakfast.

Or is it dinner?

Lunch? Midnight snack?

What time is it?

“What time is it?” he asks the Doctor, who doesn’t respond. Terrible person to ask. The Doctor lost his own sense of time long ago, his internal clock entirely dictated by the primitive rhythms of his body. The Master remembers being proud of himself for that, for stripping the Doctor of that power. Now, it only makes him feel ill.

He stays there, watching the Doctor’s monitors, for what _feels_ like a long time. The lights certainly change. They go from twilit to dark to bright, so it must be morning. It doesn’t feel like morning; it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s as if time has gone entirely. Dead static where the Doctor used to be, dead static in all of time and space. There’s nothing left, just the drums and the rage and the sick ache in the pits of the Master’s hearts.

 

“Master?”

He’s distantly aware that Ashton has seen him, wearing the same clothes as the day before yesterday, unshaved and unmoving. His watch is whistling incessantly from across the room, where the Master chucked it in a brief spurt of rage.

“It’s… Master? I usually… er… wash him. Is that all right?”

The Master nods once and rolls off the mattress, stumbling to the bathroom. The shower feels like it takes a long time, but the lights haven’t changed when he gets out and towels off. Everything feels sluggish and sort of painful, in a muted, achy way. He comes out of the bathroom and dresses, not fully, just in a shirt and trousers. Ashton hasn’t finished with the Doctor, so the Master sits next to them, stroking the Doctor’s hair idly while Ashton washes his feet.

“He has bedsores again,” Ashton says, quietly, as he sets the basin of water aside and rubs gently over the Doctor’s skin with a dry towel. “On his back.”

 _It hurts,_ the Doctor is supposed to say. He’s supposed to shift uncomfortably, wincing, as he tries to find a bearable position. _Going to fix them, Master?_

They roll the Doctor onto his side, his head in the Master’s lap. Ashton flashes a dermal regenerator over the sores and they vanish.

 _Thank you_ , the Doctor should say, but doesn’t.

 

Emma’s hand shakes as she brings the fork to her mouth, and she winces when she swallows. August’s magic wand can heal her, but can’t stop the soreness, the weakness in every limb. When the roast chicken is gone, Sarah takes the plate away and leaves the two of them alone. Emma’s trembling worsens.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” the Master says. “I won’t hit you again.”

She looks away, staring blankly at the door. He expects her to try to say something, but she doesn’t. She might be too scared.

“I didn’t intend to do so much damage. The way your mouth moves when you stutter reminds me of the way he used to… reminds me of him. I lost my temper. I am… sorry.”

Still, she says nothing.

“Emma, you can speak, if you want. I won’t be angry.” He crosses the room to her side, lays a hand on her shoulder, and she doesn’t so much as bat an eyelid. “Emma? I really mean it. I’m not going to hurt you. Em—”

Her head lolls limply, blood trickling from her nose. Her eyes are open and vacant.

“I was angry because I miss him.”

The blood runs over her lips, down her chin. An aneurysm, brought on by clotted blood from the beating.

“Because I love him.” He closes her eyes, covers her face with the sheet. “You’re dead because I love him.”

_The people on all those planets are dead because I love him._

He’s _dead because I love him._

 _Except_ … except he’s not really dead.

_He’s not dead, and I love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I told you everything would be okay.


	13. Awoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake up, Doctor. Time to play some more.

Light filters through his eyelids, turning them bright red. Hurts. He thinks about grunting, but decides against it, because a weird tickle-y feeling suggests his throat would probably hurt, too.

His neck is stiff, but he turns his head anyway, and finds that the light seems to be coming from all directions. He can’t blot it out.

Leather on his forehead, and he freezes, recognizing the feel of the Master’s gloves. “Master?” he whispers, and after a strangled, wounded sound from above, there are kisses. So many kisses, the air is full of them, and they touch his forehead, his cheeks, the hollow of his throat, the faintly pulsing skin over his carotid artery, his eyelids, his hairline, and finally, sweetly, slowly, his lips. He can feel the Master’s tongue swipe over his lips and they part in surprise to allow entry; the Master tastes like coffee and pancakes, with the indefinable undercurrents of _Master_ and _Time Lord_ and _safe_ and _home_ , and if he could breathe the Doctor would be crying from the _need_ of the kiss. That need is every bit as real and sensual as the friction of the Master’s bottom lip, and the Doctor can taste its passion, can _taste_ the Master’s love. But it isn’t love, it can’t be, because the Master doesn’t, _can’t_ , love the way he is loved.

“Doctor,” the Master says at last, speaking against his lips.

“Master.” So quietly, he can barely hear himself, but there is the kiss again, deep and longing and _not loving, it can’t be._ The Master saves him from his loneliness and tames him and keeps him, can soothe and hurt and make him safe, but he doesn’t love.

“Say it again.”

The Doctor whispers his name once more, wondering why his Master is so breathless and upset, but unable to ask. Gentle. _Mastergentle, Master myMaster gentle so gentle love you, love you Master. If only you could love me._

Over and over, the kiss breaks and is reformed with a whisper.

“Again, Doctor.”

“Master.”

“Use my name.”

“What’s wrong, Mast—“

“Say it.”

“Master.”

“Again.”

“Love you, Master.”

The Master bites his lip, hard, and the Doctor’s voice cracks over his outcry. “Sorry, I’m sorry, hold on,” the Master says. Sorry. The Master says sorry.

The magic wand whirrs and the Doctor whispers, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, you’re fine, you’re awake and you know me and you’re talking.”

“You sound upset.”

“I’m not upset, Doctor, I’m happy.”

The Doctor’s hearts lift pleasantly. “Does that mean I’m being good?”

“I’m happy because you’re awake. Because I… because… I missed you. And I…”

He stops, abruptly, and the Doctor tries to open his eyes. It’s far too bright, though, and he’s too weak to cover his face. “Bright in here,” he whispers, turning his face this way and that, hoping for more kisses.

“Sorry.” Sorry again. The Master is sorry. The lights dim, and his eyelids cool to black. The Doctor sighs the Master’s name, and oh, more kisses, such sweet kisses. He finds, now that the Master really is being gentle, that it terrifies him, because he won’t be able to bear losing it. The Master has to kiss him forever. Only option.

“Beg?” the Doctor whispers, when the kiss breaks. “Am I allowed to beg?”

“You can beg, you can do anything,” the Master replies.

“Please, Master, so gentle, need you,” he whimpers, a few tears sneaking out from under his eyelids, and he gets more kisses before he can even continue.

 

The Master tends to him, giving him eyedrops to help his eyes get used to working again, giving him water through a straw, giving kisses any time he hears his name.

“Bad, Master,” the Doctor says at last, starting to cry.

The Master kisses his lips gently once more and strokes his hair, soothing as best he knows how. “No, Doctor, nothing’s wrong, what’s wrong? Does something hurt?”

“I’m bad, Master, ‘m telling you what to do. Saying your name because you kiss me.”

“And I’m kissing you because you’re saying my name,” the Master replies, demonstrating. “Because I missed hearing my name from you. Missed you, and these kisses, and I…” He swallows. The Doctor deserves to know, and if the Doctor can admit it in weakness, so can his Master in strength. “I love you.”

The Doctor’s face falls, and he says, “Don’t. Please. Everything else, anything else, but don’t.” His chest heaves, his whole body shudders. “Hurt me? Take me downstairs instead, hurt me, but don’t… don’t…” He’s allowed to beg, so he does. “Please. Master. Please, don’t, don’t say—don’t, because I’ll believe you, I’ll believe you and you _can’t_ , you can’t love me, you’ll… I’ll be bad and you’ll pick a new favorite and your love will be gone. Your kisses were hard enough, don’t make me lose your love, don’t, please—”

The Doctor doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t _want_ to believe him.

“But you can’t be bad anymore,” the Master blurts out, deciding on the spot. “You’ll never be bad again. Okay? I’ll love you always, because nothing you’ll do will be bad, and I’ll never punish you or hurt you, ever. You’ll always be my favorite. I will love you. Please, don’t cry. Don’t cry.” He gives kisses and pets him, tells him over and over, murmuring praises and promises of love in the Doctor’s ear, but he won’t stop crying. “A half-share in the universe with me, Doctor, a half-share in eternity. I will always be here, will love you, Doctor.”

Maybe he’s crying because he wants the Master to leave. The Master withdraws, but as soon as his touch leaves the Doctor’s skin—

“ _NO!_ ”

“Okay, it’s all right, I’m here. What do you want? What is it, what’s wrong, Doctor? Do you want more kisses?” The Master gives them freely, rubs the Doctor’s chest with one hand and strokes his hair with the other. Convulsively, the Doctor’s arms twist up and out of their sheets and wrap around the only part of the Master they can reach—his forearm, over the Doctor’s chest. _What do I do? What do I do?_ The only ways the Master knows to calm him are soft words and gentle touches and kisses. He doesn’t know how to soothe him now.

 

The Doctor isn’t asleep, not quite. After so long seeing him still, the Master touches and teases to keep him awake, to keep him moving. He’s dozing under the influence of the sedative the Master gave him, but the Master can’t bear to see him fully asleep. (He knows the Doctor is healthy, considering his coma, but the Master can’t shake the fear that once the Doctor is asleep again, he will never awaken.)

He protests and frowns every time the Master backs away, but the Master desperately needs to sit and rest his trembling legs. He’s been at this for hours, bent at the waist over the Doctor’s prone form, and every bone in his body aches from the strain. He can’t share the Doctor’s bed, since it will disrupt the sensors monitoring for complications, and he can’t take that risk.

The Doctor has latched onto his tie, so the Master slips it off, letting him toy with it between his fingers, helping him guide it up to his face and watching as he rubs it against his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips. He kisses one end and wraps the other around his fingers, just feeling the fabric, taking in the Master’s scent, and the Master slumps into the chair next to his bed, leaving his hand in the Doctor’s hair to pet him there.

 

When the Master wakes, the Doctor is still. The Master shakes him gently, and his eyes flick open with a startled exclamation of the Master’s name. The Master apologizes and kisses him deeply, again and again, as the Doctor keeps whispering, “Master.”

His lips are flushed and swollen when he finally asks, “Not bad? To… to ask like this?”

“For kisses? No, of course not.”

“…Master?”

Another kiss, and suddenly all the Master can think about is the Doctor keening his name in pleasure. The Doctor can move, can speak, can listen, will respond to the Master’s little touches. Won’t he? The Master tries it, a small experiment, running fingers gently over the Doctor’s thigh. The Doctor’s answering sound is a soft whimper, a slight rustle of fabric as he encourages the Master’s hand with a thrust of his hips in the air. “Going to play?” he asks, the answer he’s hoping for betrayed by the stirring of his cock against the Master’s forearm.

“No, Doctor,” the Master answers, swinging up into the Doctor’s bed and rummaging in a drawer for lube with one hand, “we’re going to _fuck_.”

 

But when the Master says _fuck_ , the Doctor is confused. It implies so much violence that the Master doesn’t inflict; last time the Master said he’d fuck him, the Doctor ended up half-conscious, with both of the Master’s fists in his arse. This is so… so… The Master is in the _bed_ with him, over him, and the Doctor decides his new favorite cuffs are his Master’s hands, pinning him to the mattress. And there are kisses, so many kisses, the Doctor doesn’t even have to _ask_ for them. They are simply given, not just to his lips, but to his jaw, his cheek, his forehead.

The Master’s tie is still tangled between the fingers of his right hand, and he rubs the fabric dazedly as he tries to work out what’s going on. The Master is a whirlwind of touches and sensation and kisses, but even when he pins both of the Doctor’s wrists in one hand and parts his legs with the other, he’s not… he doesn’t _hurt_. And when the Master’s still-gloved, lubed finger teases his arse, it does so slowly, gently, working him open with so much care and patience that it’s five minutes before the finger even enters him. When it does, it pushes in no more than an inch at a time, fucks a little, withdraws, and then moves slightly forward. It doesn’t even ache, not even a little, and when the Doctor coos his appreciation, the Master crooks that finger and drags it over his prostate, again and again and again, just to hear the Doctor respond, just to watch him thrust and shiver. When a little pool of precome has started to spread over the Doctor’s abdomen, the Master stops, taking his finger out to add more lube.

Half an hour later, the Master is wiping the Doctor’s come off of his chest and stomach with his thumb and tasting it. He still hasn’t actually _taken_ the Doctor, or even undone his fly. The Doctor’s eyes wander down the buttons of his shirt, raking over his groin, and he can _see_ the head of the Master’s cock tenting the fabric over his left thigh. “Master,” he whimpers, arching into the resulting kiss, releasing a strangled sort of mewling sound when he feels leather fingers teasing once more at the rim of his arsehole.

The Master hums against his lips with a chuckle and thrusts his fingers deep, making the Doctor shiver—he swears he can feel the stitches in the gloves’ seams, he’s so sensitized.

The Master milks him dry with his fingers before he so much as thinks of himself. The Doctor’s still hard, but can’t ejaculate anymore, by the time he hears the telltale zipper. The Master’s fingers have softened his entrance, opened it, and as the blunt head of the Master’s cock eases its way in, the Doctor feels full and pinned and safe and—not loved. Can’t be loved.

“It’s not,” he whispers to himself, unheard, as the Master’s gentle entry proceeds to a vigorous, but not even slightly uncomfortable, fuck. It’s not love. The Master doesn’t love.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s safe to pretend.

 

When the Master insists on doing a scan, the Doctor grins and tilts his head adorably, asking, “What for?”

“Permanent damage,” the Master says, pulling back the sheet to let Ashton have access.

As Ashton scoops the Doctor up and settles him on the scanner’s table, he asks, “Bit late, don’t you think?”

Yes, he probably should have done this when the Doctor first woke up. “Maybe. But I monitored you the whole time, so I doubt anything bad could have happened.” The Master turns to sit at the scanner, but is stopped by a plaintive,

“Master?”

Automatically, the Master moves back to the Doctor’s side and kisses him. “I’m not leaving,” he says, hastily. “I just watch the scan to see if there are problems. Remember?”

“I remember.” The Doctor looks up at him, so much adoration in his big brown eyes, and says, “But you don’t… you don’t have to pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

“You can tell me. I won’t be scared, or anything.”

Concerned now, his brow furrowing, the Master asks, “Doctor, what are you talking about?”

“I remember dying,” the Doctor says simply. “And you’re being so kind, so… so gentle. Master.” The Master gives him his kiss, and without missing a beat, he continues, “Lucy was right. It’s _wonderful_ here.”

“Lucy was… Where exactly do you think you are, Doctor?”

“Isn’t it obvious where I am?”

“Not to me, no.”

“Lucy said that you get everything you could ever want, as a reward for being good. And you’re being so gentle, and you never leave me, and you give me kisses. I’m even allowed to touch you,” he whispers, reverently, laying his hand carefully over the Master’s glove. “And I died. I remember that. So I _must_ be in Heaven, which means you don’t need to scan me for permanent damage.” He grins again. “Doesn’t really get any more permanent than death.”

Heaven? He thinks he’s _dead_? “Humor me,” the Master says, his mind racing to catch up. The Doctor doesn’t want him to leave, so he stays by the Doctor’s side through the scan, trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do now. What’s he supposed to say? He can’t have the Doctor thinking he’s _dead_. He’d put himself at too much risk, thinking he’s immortal. The Master can no longer trust the Doctor to protect himself.

But if he learns the truth, he’ll fall apart. Without his Heaven, he’ll think he has to follow the rules again, and he doesn’t anymore. Those rules crippled him, trapped and broke him, and if the Master wants to keep his Doctor, he needs to keep him happy.

Maybe there’s some kind of middle ground, a way to let the Doctor keep his Heaven and _not_ give him permission to put himself at risk. It would have to be done without framing Heaven as something temporary, something that can be lost, because the Doctor will be consumed by fear of that loss. He’d probably revert to the rules on his own, so distorted is his reality now. He’s had enough trouble letting go of them thinking that there are no consequences for anything he does.

And what happens if something the Doctor doesn’t like occurs? If the ship is attacked, or the Master has to punish someone? Those things would never feature in his Heaven. The delusion would be shattered, and it would all fall apart.

Maybe it’s better to simply deal with it directly. Tell him right off that he isn’t in Heaven, and help him adjust.

The scan is finished. The Master reads through the results on a tablet, pausing now and then to deliver the requisite kiss when the Doctor murmurs his name. With the exception of the muscular atrophy caused by his long stillness, the Doctor’s scan is identical to his last. Even the atrophy is minimal, thanks to the Master’s physical therapy sessions.

 

When the Doctor wakes, it’s slow, fuzzy, sort of comfortable but mostly a little _too_ floaty and tingly. He has a vague impression of being given disturbing news. Something about… being alive? He’s alive.

He’s not dead.

For some reason, that’s very bad, and he startles at the realization. Instantly half-blinded by the lights of the room, he squeezes his eyes shut again and remembers, remembers the Master trying to calm him.

_no Master I’ve been bad please don’t please kill me I can’t be bad anymore please Master_

_“It’s all right, Doctor, you’ve not been bad, you’ve been very good, so very good…”_

But he kept… kept saying he was bad, because it was _true_ , and then the Master almost went away but he came back and he had a syringe. It put him to sleep. Not right away, it took a bit, with the Master’s voice and his hands and his lips, until everything got sort of fizzy. Fuzzy? Fizzy. Fizzy fuzzy fazzy fozzy fezzy. Heh. Fezz-fizz-fuzz. Fezz fizz fazz fuzz fizz fizz fizz fiizzzzzzzzzz—

“Good morning,” the Master says, and he remembers. His protests at being alive, being awake, are drowned in little kisses, until it isn’t so bad that he’s awake. He’s pulled into a sitting position, propped up on a huge stack of pillows, and the Master feeds him. Tortilla soup. With the first spoonful he realizes how hungry he is, and eagerly waits for the next. The Master is, of course, not forgotten; his voice hums along pleasantly in the background, indistinct, as the Doctor devours everything he’s given.

By the time the bowl is empty, the Doctor feels quite full, and is perfectly content to lie there and feel fuzzy and let the Master pet him. It seems to make the Master happy, and in any case, he’s dizzy when he moves. He feels the Master’s lips against his forehead, but can’t recall using his name. The Master’s talking now. He stirs himself a little, closing his eyes against the rush of dizziness, then trying to focus on the Master’s face.

“Going to turn the medicine down a little, all right?” the Master repeats. The Doctor nods and gets dizzy again, so he rests his head back on the pillows. Minutes pass in fuzzy fizzy fazzy fezzy fozzy little fits and starts, until the Doctor’s fingertips stop tingling and he can focus. “There, now, that’s better,” the Master says, but the fuzzy has been replaced by an acute awareness of his surroundings, the brightness and sterility.

The Doctor wants to ask for the closet, but he’s not allowed. Not while he’s alive. He starts to cry again, stopping only when the Master gives him kisses and touches for a while longer.

Gradually, he calms, until he’s huddled on the side of the bed closest to the Master, holding his forearm in both hands, eyes closed, rubbing his lips over the elbow of the Master’s suit. The Master’s free hand runs through his hair, and he murmurs soothing words, that the Doctor is being good, that he is loved.

The door opens, and the Doctor jumps. It’s Sarah, with more food. “Sorry,” she says, but smiles widely at the sight of him. “Hi.”

The Doctor doesn’t move, but waves timidly at the Master’s urging.

“Sorry,” she repeats. “Just… I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

The Doctor doesn’t say anything. Her smile falls a little, and she looks to the Master, who pets the Doctor encouragingly.

“It’s okay. Talk.”

“Hello,” the Doctor says, numbly. He can’t think of anything to say. “I’m not dead.”

Sarah laughs. “I noticed.” She sets the tray on the table next to the Master, since the food is for him. “We missed you. While you were asleep, I mean.”

The Doctor opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out for a bit, until, “I… think I dreamed.”

“Nice dreams?” The Doctor nods. “Good. Hope you have some more.”

The Master gives the Doctor his tie again and turns the medicine up, so the Doctor isn’t scared the Master will leave when he lets go. He’s just eating, and he’ll stay here, and he pauses whenever the Doctor drunkenly slurs his name to give kisses.

“Want some?” he offers, and the Doctor nibbles at a little piece of savory chicken. He’s still full from the soup, though, so he doesn’t eat any more. He just watches the Master, watches his lips and his hands, basking in his presence and feeling his tie. He dozes off.

When he wakes, the Master is gone.

He screams, hears footfalls, leather hands on the sides of his face, comforting him, kisses, the Master is back, is here.

“Master you left you were gone Master,” he pants, his chest hurts from breathing too fast.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’ll warn you next time. You want me to warn you? I’m sorry. It’s all right, Doctor, I’m here, shh, shh…” So many touches, so many kisses, he can’t breathe for all the kisses. “I always come back, remember? I’ll always come back.”

“Always?”

“I love you.”

The Doctor cries.


	14. Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor gets some presents.

As long as the Master warns him, the Doctor is getting better about being on his own, at least for short stretches. The Doctor sleeps a lot, a side effect of the calming medicine, but once the Master wakes to find the Doctor crying quietly.

“Doctor? None of that, shh, I’m here. What is it?”

“You were sleeping.”

“Yeah. Still here, though, so that’s okay, right?”

“I saw you sleeping. Please. Didn’t mean to.”

The Master’s quite confused until he remembers. “Oh. It’s okay, Doctor. Not your fault. You can watch me sleep now, if you want. I won’t be mad.”

“You were so…” He takes a shuddering breath, shakes his head, hides in his sheets.

“You liked it?” The Master grins. “I’m still tired. You can watch me more, if you like.”

The Doctor makes no reply for a long time, just looks at the Master. “Please,” he says softly, “please. Please.”

“Please what? What do you want?”

“Please?”

“You want me to go back to sleep? So you can see again?”

The Doctor looks at him, but is silent now.

“Okay. I’ll go to sleep. Wake me if you need me, all right?”

The Master leans back in his chair, closing his eyes, and drifts off. He wakes, once again, to find the Doctor crying.

“No,” the Doctor whispers, as soon as he opens his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. I’m sorry.” He hides under his sheets, sniffling, until the Master draws him out with the promise of kisses. Once delivered, with tongue, the Doctor is soothed, and it’s his turn to fall asleep.

 

Weeks pass. When he can stand on his own, the Doctor gets to move back into his closet, and spends six full hours just feeling the sheets and pillows, watching the Master work.

The Master learns to give him distractions. Books are good. People are better. The Doctor seems particularly fond of Lucy and Ashton, so the Master gives him both at once. His favorite thing, though, is the tablet, and since the Doctor likes to see his Master, the Master loads all his speeches on it. The Doctor watches them constantly.

But he still can’t be without his Master. He has to be in the room and visible, or the Doctor will scream bloody murder, and need hours or drugs to calm down.

Excursions downstairs don’t help, either. The Doctor seems to have forgotten how to talk to people in his long isolation, and looks helplessly to the Master, wondering what he’s supposed to say.

The Master’s infinite reserves of patience keep the Doctor relatively happy, but he’s running out of excuses to give advisors and staff as to why he’s not in the office. He starts slow, letting the Doctor get used to being without him a bit at a time. He’s gotten up to half-hour breaks a few times a day, but when he comes back, the Doctor’s yelling at Lucy, clutching the tablet to his chest, because she tried to take it away to charge it.

 

He also has nightmares, so bad they make him scared to sleep. Bizarrely, when the Master starts to cuff him before he goes to bed in case of thrashing, they abate slightly, but only if the Master uses the softer cuffs—lined with silk or garment leather, nothing metal. Metal makes them worse. The Master takes all the metal cuffs and shackles out of the bedroom and moves them downstairs, and that helps, too. So does sex, which the Master is happy to provide.

But he can’t be on his own, ever, and if Lucy or Ashton make sudden moves while watching him, he freaks out; he cries in his sleep; if he gets the faintest hint that the Master is angry with him, he has panic attacks, one after another, until he passes out.

 

He’s drugged and sleeping, dark circles under his eyes, when Lucy comes to check on them one evening. The Master can’t resist touching, making him stir under his hands. “You’ll wake him up,” she says, warningly, and the Master stops.

“I like watching him move,” he says, and she smiles knowingly. “How do I make him happy?”

It’s the most bizarre thing he’s ever asked her, and for a long moment, she’s stunned into silence. “I don’t rightly know,” she replies, honestly. “He’s so… scared. Of everything, but especially of losing you. You’re all he talks about, when you’ve gone, you know. He asks about you, whether you’re happy with him, whether you’re coming back. Can’t get him to talk about anything else.”

“He loves me.”

“Yes, he does.”

“I love him.” Lucy, startled, simply stares at him; the Master grins wryly. “What do I do about that?”

“Make him happy.”

“And how do I make him happy?” the Master sighs. “I’ve asked, but he doesn’t… It’s like he doesn’t understand, anymore, what it is to _want_ something. Or if he does, he can’t say anything. I’ve broken him of it. And now, when I _need_ him to, he won’t.” His voice is edged with frustration, and Lucy lays a hand on his shoulder gently.

“If loss is something he fears, perhaps he needs things to hold onto,” she suggests, softly. “The rest of us have our own beds, our own clothes, our own toys. All the Doctor has is this closet, and you, and whatever you give him for the day.”

“What do you mean, he has this closet?”

“He loves it in here,” Lucy smiles. “It makes him feel close to you, having this… space you’ve given him. And he kept your shirt.”

“I know,” the Master says. “I found it… when I…” Something difficult for him to say, and it finally tumbles out in a rush, “When I cleaned out, before he moved back in, I found it. He put it on a pillow, and there were marks from his arms… he held it. Pretended it was me, pretended I was there with him.” He’s silent for several long moments, his lips in an unfamiliar pout. Sadness.

“He values what you give him,” Lucy says, bringing him back to the present. “Perhaps you should give him more.”

 

The Doctor is drugged yet again, but awake; he feels dizzy and sick. He wraps his arms around Ashton’s neck, holding on for dear life, as they head down the stairs.

The Master is busy, but he’s promised they’ll play when the Doctor comes back up. First, he needs a good scrub, though, so Ashton and Lucy are taking him to the water play room for a shower. It’s empty but for them, and they never leave him, so his only protests are related to the distinct lack of Master. He closes his eyes, lets them turn and drape and hold him every which way, lets them wash him, and thinks about when they go back upstairs. How will they play? Cuffs, certainly. Or the Master’s hands, pinning him down, touching and smacking and—oh, he can’t _wait._

He shivers, feels Ashton’s strong arms encircle him while Lucy washes his legs. They’re going much too slowly for his taste, and he wriggles impatiently. Lucy can’t resist a little giggle, but the Doctor makes an impatient, frustrated noise, and the pair shush him. “Patience, Doctor,” Lucy chides. “The Master said to take our time and be thorough, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Sorry, Lucy,” the Doctor says, into Ashton’s shoulder.

“It’s all right. I know you miss him.”

The Doctor bites painfully, without realizing it, into Ashton’s collarbone. He hisses, but says nothing. No broken skin, after all.

 

Once he’s been scrubbed into pink-skinned cleanness, they wash his hair, and he has to admit that it feels nice. They won’t let him shave himself for some reason, and Ashton insists on combing out his hair. It’s grown past his ears now. When Ashton’s finally done, Lucy rings someone, and in comes Allison, bringing kisses for Lucy and scissors for the Doctor’s hair. His head feels lighter and softer when they’ve finished, and he can’t stop running his fingers through his hair. It feels like it used to, when… before. It hasn’t been this short, he doesn’t think, since the Master first took him captive.

 

Back up the stairs they go. The Doctor tries not to look down. Once they reach the Master’s room, Ashton sets him gently back down on his feet, steadying him when he sways. Lucy opens the door, and the Doctor totters unsteadily over the threshold, collapsing almost immediately when he sees the Master is dismantling his closet. An involuntary scream tears at his throat; the Master is at his side in a moment, shushing and soothing.

“Please, Master, no, don’t. Don’t take it away, don’taketawayplease Master pleaseplease I’msorryI’llbegood…”

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe and he’s trying but he can’t and it hurts and the world goes fuzzy and gray.

When the world returns, in the shape of the Master, it brings kisses, and something soft and warm his head is resting on—oh, god, it’s the Master’s lap.

“That’s it,” the Master says encouragingly, with a smile. “Good boy. It’s all right, Doctor, your closet isn’t being taken away.”

“Master,” the Doctor whispers, not daring to give his thigh a nuzzle. The Master can’t bend down in a way to give a kiss, so he kisses his fingertips and feeds them to the Doctor instead.

“I’ve decided to give you some things to keep,” the Master murmurs, fucking the Doctor’s lips gently with his fingers. “Some things to call your own. I’m just making a set of drawers so you can keep them close, that’s all. Would you like to help?”

The Doctor, busy sucking on the Master’s fingers in a state of utter ecstasy, doesn’t seem to be paying attention. The Master pulls them free with an audible pop, and explains again. “Help me with it. We can do it together.”

“Gonna play after?” The Master’s eyes wander down the Doctor’s naked body to find his cock twitching impatiently.

“Yes, we can play.”

The Doctor holds the pieces in place while the Master drills them in, and the drawers are finished in no time. The Doctor watches, awed, as the Master opens each one and fills it. There are three drawers, one each for clothing, sex toys, and distractions; the Master explains, patiently, that these things have always been for the Doctor, but the Master chose from them before. Now the Doctor is allowed them whenever he likes. Playtime, for once, is forgotten, as the Doctor spends hours trailing fingers over the Master’s gifts.

Clothes. He has his own clothes. The Master, with great amusement, suggests he choose something to get dressed in, and the Doctor slips into the softest, warmest clothes he can find.

He’s overwhelmed when he sees the toys that the Master has chosen for him—the third-largest plug, the rattan cane, that slim collar with the thick padding. His favorites. The Master knows his favorites. He knew all along, and each time he used them was even more of a special treat than the Doctor had thought.

And, of course, distractions. A whole row of books, new ones, ones he hasn’t read. A tablet computer for drawing, with thousands more digital books. A Rubik’s cube, a set of headphones with music, a laptop with simple, pleasant games he’s allowed to play.

He tries not to cry, but the happiness forces a great bubble to swell in his stomach, burbling heat rising up from his core and pooling in his new clothes.

“Crying _and_ smiling? Can’t you pick one?” the Master jokes, and toys with his hair.

 

To put it simply, Lucy was right.

Having things, even the meager, simple things the Master provided, makes a world of difference. He’s still not happy when the Master has to leave, but he doesn’t cry so much, and it’s very nearly business as usual on the Valiant again. The Doctor still doesn’t like going downstairs, though, so the Master lets him stay in his bedroom, only going down for showers and the occasional meal.

The Master also tells him that he’s allowed the use of his toys whenever he chooses, and oh, he _likes_. The Doctor changes his clothes, of course, but his collar and cuffs are almost always present, and the Master can only get him to take out the plug for sex—afterward, he gets a show, watching the Doctor hum and squirm happily as he works it back into his arse again. Curiously, he also chooses to go back to chastity, despite now being permitted to bring himself off if he wants to. The general rule seems to be that the Doctor likes having as many toys as possible on his person at any given moment, and since he’s profoundly calmer when he has them, the Master doesn’t argue.

Once, the Master comes back to find the Doctor nude except for his toys—all of them—waiting by the door, holding the lead to his collar with a hopeful expression. The Master takes it from him when it’s offered, clips it on the D-ring at the front of the collar, and walks the Doctor around the bedroom, the bathroom, back to his bed, and has him sit beside it as he works on a laptop for a few hours. The Doctor simply curls up and sleeps, quite soundly, for the duration, and from then on the Master never refuses him a walk.

 

Not that the addition of toys, clothes, and games could salve the Doctor’s wounds entirely. The Master still receives frequent reports about the Doctor’s impatience and anxiety. On many an occasion, he’s called from his office to soothe the Doctor when he inexplicably starts to cry and hide in his sheets, or, once, in his clothes drawer. The Master tells him sternly that the drawers aren’t ventilated and he’s not to do such a thing again, then spends the next two hours assuring the Doctor he’s not angry.

It’s exhausting, but the Doctor is _alive._ He’s faultlessly obedient, endlessly hungry for sex and attention, ruthlessly servile. The Master would literally not have it any other way.

 

"Masterpleaseno please, stop, pleasemaster no don’thurtmepleaseMasterplease…”

The Master can only think about the time he was drunk and hid under his own bed, pouncing on the Doctor’s ankles as he walked by. “Shh, Doctor, it’s all right, not going to hurt you, no one’s going to hurt you—“

“PLEASE!”

“I’m here, it’s all right. Shh, now, hush. Look at me. Look at me.”

The Doctor doesn’t, _can’t_ tear his eyes away from the space between the underside of the Master’s bed and the floor. Ashton and Lucy pace nervously by the door, standard procedure when the Doctor’s having an episode.

“You’re all right, Doctor. Just breathe. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you, not ever again. I promise. I swear. Okay?”

The Doctor finally calms, but starts up again when the Master tries to take his leave. The Master finally sits on the edge of the closet and coaxes the Doctor’s head into his lap, since it worked so well before, and the Doctor, hiccoughing, explains softly,

“He’s gonna hurt me.”

“No one’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

“He’s waiting for you to leave. He waits for you to leave and he steals your, your gloves and your voice and he… tricks me that he’s you, that I’m safe, and he hurts me.” The Doctor’s hand curls gently over the Master’s knee. “Don’t go. Please?”

“All right. I’ll stay tonight.”

The Doctor smiles. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Right… like this? Here, like this, with me?”

“Well, eventually, I’ll need to sleep. But we can stay like this for a while, if you like.”

The air is full of the Doctor’s praises and his thanks, and the remainder of the Doctor’s evening is comprised of him butting his head against the Master’s thighs. The Master tries to work, but winds up mostly petting him instead. The Doctor has a monster living under the bed now. He determines he’ll do what it takes to get rid of it.

 

“Is someone going to watch me?"

"Yes, of course. I know how you hate being alone."

"Ashton?"

"No, not Ashton."

"Lucy?"

"No, not Lucy either."

The Doctor tries the whole list, everyone in the Master’s little harem, and they’re all shot down.

"Someone new will watch me?"  
"Yep."

Thinking the Master has a new slave, the Doctor wonders what they’ll be like, whether they’ll protect him from the flickering image of Lucian, waiting under the Master’s bed.  
"Are... are they allowed to hold me, Master?" He likes to be held.  
The Master thinks about it briefly, then murmurs, "I suppose so, if you'd like him to."

And the Doctor can't say anything, because he can't tell the Master what he likes, even though the Master's already said it's okay. So the Doctor goes to sleep, crying and fretting in the night, and the Master wakes him up the next morning. Ashton's waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a wheelchair, which he lifts the Doctor into, then pushes up to the door of the Master’s office. Curiouser and curiouser. (He’s reading _Alice in Wonderland_.) He can’t believe what happens next.

The Master wheels him the rest of the way, past the Master’s outer office, where Lucy looks up from a desk and smiles at him, and into his inner office. It’s all ebony wood paneling and brushed chrome and glass, and the Master helps him settle on a large, overstuffed black leather couch, not unlike the armchair in his bedroom.

"Master? Are... are you the one watching me today?"

A little kiss. "Yes, Doctor."

And he can't even say it, his eyes tear up, he stumbles over the words— “Are you... are... are... y-you..."

Master sits next to him, warm fabric and Master and the scent of him so near, puts an arm over the Doctor’s shoulder, and pulls him close.

"I'm allowed to hold you."


	15. Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you cried yet? No? Well, this chapter can fix that.

The Doctor stands on the Master’s feet, carefully, his bare toes sensitive on the seams in the Master’s stiff leather shoes. “Like that?”

“Like that,” the Master responds, and begins to dance. The Doctor, carried along for the ride, smiles, looks down into the Master’s face. Music plays in their ears through the Doctor’s earbuds, something with a big-band, moldy oldie feel, easy to dance to.

“I don’t recognize this song,” the Doctor says shyly.

“I’ll Never Be Lonely Again,” the Master replies. “By Ludo.”

“’Spretty.”

The Master smiles. “Good.”

When the Master performs a particularly forceful twirl at the end of the song, the Doctor nearly whirls away, stopped short by the Master’s gloved hands around his wrists. “Whoa,” he says, grinning. “You’re a good dancer, Master.”

The Master kisses him silly, pressing him back and down until he flumps onto the leather couch. And he keeps kissing, until their lips are swollen, the Doctor’s lips swollen and hot, careful on the head of his cock, staying high at first and working lower and lower, slowly, so slowly. The Master aches before the Doctor’s bottom lip touches his balls, and he smiles, and the Doctor pulls up, sighs through his nose, takes a deep breath and fucks his own mouth with the Master’s cock, doing all the work, giving and receiving until the Master comes in his throat.

 

The Doctor can’t remember what happened, but he knows it was bad. It must have been, because the Master has taken away all his sheets. He doesn’t remember… He just wants them back. Wants to hide. But he’s not allowed to say, can’t say, _can’t say_ , and a distressed sound ekes out from the back of his throat.

“Hush, now, it’s all right. Shh, now. Just listen to my voice, okay? Let’s clean you up, how about a nice bath?”

“I’m sorry, sorry, Master, sorry!” the Doctor wails, remembering the last time he had a bath, the freezing cold, the Master so angry…

The Master strokes his forehead, then scoops him up in one smooth motion. A gentle kiss to his hairline, and the Doctor’s shivering already, can hardly even feel the Master’s arms around him. The Master’s arms, around him. He wails again, “Sorry, Master.” Squeezes his eyes shut, buries his face in the Master’s neck.

The Master’s neck. The Doctor’s momentarily distracted from his predicament by the texture of the skin against his nose, but then it’s over. How can it be over? And he’s in a tub, the Master’s arms withdrawing despite his attempts to clutch at them. He keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t want to look, wants to hold the Master’s face in his memory.

The empty tub’s walls are cold, and he draws into himself, shivering in anticipation of the cold water. A wet, heavy series of splatters as the tap begins to flow, and the Doctor can’t help but cry.

“No, none of that, please,” the Master says softly. “It’s all right, see? Doctor? It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry, Master, I am.”

“Shh, now.”

The Master continues to comfort and soothe, to no avail, as the water draws closer and closer to the Doctor’s twitching toes. He’s so cold it hurts. All he wants is his closet, safe and warm, and he can’t even keep that, can’t even be good enough to keep that.

Water on his toes. He yelps and recoils, and the Master murmurs, his voice low and soothing, “That’s right, you aren’t used to it, are you?” The Doctor hears the splatter stop as the Master turns off the water, splashes the Doctor’s feet with it. Absurdly, it feels _hot_ when it touches him, and it’s not until the Master takes his hand by the wrist and plunges it into the steaming water that he realizes it’s not freezing.

He opens his eyes and sees black marble instead of the gunmetal gray acrylic of all the tubs in the wet room, and it’s pure vertigo, he has no idea where he is, he’s _in the Master’s bath_ and the idea is so… it’s ridiculous, it’s impossible, he can’t be, the Master would never allow it. And yet here he is, by the strength of the Master’s own arms. He feels dizzy.

When he comes to, the water is flowing again, over his feet, his calves, chased by the Master’s hand. No, not his hand. Yes, his… his _hand_ , his real hand. His _skin_ , his skin on the Doctor’s, real skin Time Lord skin Master’s skin, touching him, running over him under the water, rubbing the tension out of his thighs until he uncoils, lets his legs relax and stretch in the hot water. He can’t even process how good he feels.

The Master gives him a good scrub and lets him soak, keeping the water recirculating so it stays piping hot. The Doctor floats on his back for a while, then submerges himself, curling and uncurling again, and when he’s prune-y and half-asleep the Master scoops him up again. He tries to enjoy it, but the Master merely turns, deposits him on a small bench, towels him off, and dresses him—there’s no time for the Doctor to really feel it. The Master’s hands are soft and warm from the bathwater, and the Doctor shakes himself awake to find himself smiling and in clean, slippery black pajamas.

“Closet, Master? Sheets?”

“No, Doctor. Bed.” A kiss on the end of his nose, and he’s scooped up for another few steps. His eyes close of their own accord and the Master lays him on something _so_ soft, softer than… than anything. Ever. In the history of everything. He croons with delight, limbs spreading like a spill over the surface, and it’s so comfy and so big, he can’t even reach the edges of whatever it is—it might be the Master’s bed, but he’s not allowed in the Master’s bed, so it must be something else. The Master chuckles above him and then scoots in behind, spooning him, and the Doctor freezes. “It’s all right,” the Master murmurs. “Here.”

For some reason he can’t name, the Doctor’s reassured by the cuffs, and further by the drape of the Master’s arm over his side and belly (because something about it is just as possessive). He’s asleep in an instant.

 

He wakes, with some reluctance, to the Master’s lips against his shoulder. Soft little butterfly kisses, pressed gently through the silky fabric of his pajamas. He smiles, but doesn’t move, enjoying himself far too much even to open his eyes.

Master is holding him. Master is holding him. Master. Master. “Master,” he murmurs, by accident, and his hand flies to cover his mouth, his eyes flick open, and oh my _god_ he’s in the Master’s bed, he’s not allowed in the Master’s bed. How did he get here?

The Doctor panics, so much so that next time he’s aware of his own actions, he’s been drugged and the Master is pinning him down by the wrists, forehead pressed to his. “Quiet now. It’s all right. Try to remember last night.”

“Master sorry Master I don’t know how… I don’t… remember—“

Two kisses, gentle, soft lips on his. “That’s okay. Just feel how soft the bed is. Isn’t it nice? Remember last night, after your bath?”

“I remember the bath,” the Doctor says, after a pause. “I think I fell asleep.” He frowns. “Was I asleep?”

“For a little bit. Then I woke you up, and dried you off… remember?”

The Doctor shakes his head, hides in the comforter, and is distracted by how soft it is for a moment before he remembers he’s supposed to be scared. The emotions, naked and true, flick across his face one after another, and it warms the Master’s hearts to see them.

“Well, when you were dry, I dressed you in these, and you asked for your closet, but it was still messy, so I took you to bed.”

“You carried me,” the Doctor says, sighing, eyes drifting shut.

“Feel how soft the bed is.”

“YesMaster’snice.”

Another kiss, and another, and the Master lowers his body onto the Doctor’s, and their cocks are hard all at once together straining toward one another _aching_ for one another, and the Master’s hands free each from its pajamas and then there’s only the grind, hot, slick-then-velvet friction, and the Master comes first and the Doctor comes just from seeing it. And then it’s like their Academy days, somehow, because the Master’s hard again already, teasing, touching, tasting, and the Doctor feels the Master’s tongue at the back of his balls and comes again, just from the sight of it, and the Master scoops up the Doctor’s come in his hand and brings himself off with it, and then they’re just a pile of sloppy wet kisses and sweaty damp hair and long tangled limbs, and then the pile takes a _very_ nice nap.

And while half the pile is asleep, the other half presses his fingers to the other’s face, presses gently into his mind, and listens as it hums the things it wants to its Master.

 

There’s a familiar scent on the air.

The Doctor follows it instinctively, sniffing delicately, follows the Master with his body and the scent with his nose. It’s not coffee. Something else, something under that. Something that brings back memories of furnace-heated flats, men in uniforms hunched next to radiators as they watch him work, Christmas crackers.

No. Can’t be.

And there it is on the breakfast table, nonchalant as anything. _A tea kettle._

He looks to the Master, disbelieving, and the Master smiles and nods. “English breakfast tea. Just for you.” He tousles the Doctor’s hair, then takes his seat at the table.

The Doctor’s place is already set. The Master’s helping himself to the food, but the Doctor only has eyes for the tea. He thinks he might cry. There’s a teacup and saucer at his place, packets of sugar, a tiny little stirring spoon.

Halfway through his third cup, the Master reminds him there’s food on his plate, and he tucks into the omelet-and-a-half happily between sips.

 

Tea is served with breakfast every morning from then on, and the Master will sometimes brew him a pot with dinner. The Doctor is always given first go at it, which he takes advantage of enthusiastically. Idly, the Master toys with the idea of telling the Doctor how expensive tea had become after the desolation of Earth. He decides against it. Might make him feel guilty.

And then there’s the bananas.

Compared to the tea, bananas are cheap going—they’d become popular with several species when the Master introduced Earth’s goods to the masses of the galaxy, and so were only minor delicacies. He serves them to the Doctor with cream and sugar after each meal, smiling as the Doctor lights up and savors each bite as it’s fed to him.

 

The ship is attacked the third morning the Doctor’s allowed to sleep in the Master’s bed. The Master tucks him in his closet. “I’m going to lock it now, all right?” the Master says, giving him a quick kiss, and swinging the door shut. The very walls tremble, and the Doctor screams.

The Doctor cries and pounds on the door, to no avail, because Master is busy, Master is in danger, Master is being attacked. The attack lasts for several hours, and the Doctor is convinced the Master has been killed, it’s all over, his last moment of happiness before a slow and isolated death would be a quick kiss and a fleeting glimpse as the door swings shut.

But of course the Master returns, and when he does, he pulls the Doctor into a tight hug and lets him cry it out.

“Was so scared, Master, thought something happened to you,” he sniffles, and the Master shushes him, pets his hair, because it’s all right now. And it always will be, because the Master _always_ comes back, doesn’t he? “Yes, Master,” the Doctor smiles, and his hearts ache with happiness.

 

That night, the Doctor sees Lucian in the shadows of the Master’s room, so the Master carries him into his closet. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he sees Lucian creeping ever closer to the Master behind his back—

“Why don’t you stop him? He’s so close, he’s so close…”

“Doctor, no one is there. It’s perfectly safe. The attack is over, I’m here, everything’s all right.”

“He’s here, gonna hurt me, gonna hurt _you!_ ”

“Don’t be silly. No one’s laid a finger on me in the last hundred and fifty years, and last time was _you._ ” The Master smirks. “And you aren’t going to hurt me, are you?”

“No, Master, of course not.” A kiss. “But he will, he’s gonna hurt you. We’ve got to keep you safe.” The Doctor makes a fist, and the Master laughs.

“Very well, Doctor. How about I stay with you in here?” Toeing his shoes off, the Master clambers awkwardly into the Doctor’s closet, next to him. It’s nothing like as big or comfy as his bed, and the Doctor squeezes himself flat against the wall to give him room as he closes the door.

The little light comes on. The Master settles in comfortably, not leaving much room for the Doctor, who isn’t sure what to do until the Master’s hand guides his head down, down, onto the Master’s chest.

_Thump-thump-thump-thump._

The Doctor gasps and clings to him, tears springing once more to his eyes.

_Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump—_

“What is it?”

“I can hear your hearts,” the Doctor whispers, with such reverence that the Master remains silent to let him listen until he falls asleep, warm and cozy, in the Master’s arms.


	16. Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master creates a new position in the household and discovers the catalyst of the Doctor's breakdown.

The Master announces his intention, the next morning, to create a new position in the household. He’d thought about it all night, the Doctor asleep on his chest, the idea running circles in his brain until it drove him like the strokes of an engine.

“It’s a new position, just for you,” he says, stroking fingertips down the Doctor’s spine to make him shiver. “The lover.”

The Doctor’s head twitches to one side, and he smiles. “Lover?”

“Lover. You’ll have special rules befitting a lover. You won’t be a slave anymore.”

The Doctor doesn’t seem to process that last sentence at all. “Special rules?”

“Yes. You’ll be allowed outside the suite with me, if you want, and even Lucy will have to do as you say.”

The Doctor frowns. “I can give orders? What kind of orders?”

“Any kind you like. Sarah will cook for you, whatever you want, for instance.”

“Do I have to… to play with them?”

“You don’t _have_ to. You can if you like.”

“Will you still tell Lucy if you want me to fuck someone?” He’s deeply troubled, brow furrowed and lips pursed. The Master is stuck for a reply, it’s such an oddly specific question, and before he can formulate an answer, the Doctor mutters, “I wanted to check with Lucy. He wouldn’t let me. And you got mad that I tried to get away…”

“Doctor, what are you talking about?”

The Doctor is so afraid that it’s washing over the Master in telepathic waves, heavy and slow, and building. He looks to the Master, then away, and asks quietly, “You don’t remember?”

“I’m sure I’ll remember if you tell me what you mean.”

“Well, Lucian came looking for me while I was working, and he said that you ordered him to… and I wanted to see if you told Lucy, because you always tell Lucy even if you don’t tell me, but he made me before I could ask, and then you got mad that I tried to stop him from doing what you wanted and you took me away and punished me, no more kisses and I was so cold and I missed you…”

The Master’s speechless.

The Doctor doesn’t stop, can’t stop, he’s tearing up at the memory, and continues, “And you stopped touching me, Master, I was so afraid you weren’t going to… to play with me anymore, weren’t going to give me anything to do. But you didn’t punish me again, just didn’t kiss me, you didn’t kiss me.” He’s crying now, wiping tears away with the back of his hand like a terrified child. “And it was okay, Master, it’s all okay when you’re nice, because when you’re nice I’m not alone and you can do anything to me as long as you don’t leave me alone. But you stopped, for a while, and I don’t… I can’t remember what I did _wrong_ , I can’t remember even now what I did wrong. I know it was bad, though, because… because of how you were, after. Even when I was really bad, you always kissed me goodnight, but you stopped…”

The Master had thought the Doctor betrayed him, went to another’s affections for the first time since the Master had him in captivity. Oh, he had offered comfort to other slaves before, offered affection, even, but never himself, never _sex_.

_Lucian came looking for me. He said you ordered him to._

The Master’s hands curl into fists.

“And I saw _him_ , Master, I was so scared of him I started to see him, in my dreams, in the dark. Always, always in the dark, waiting for me, waiting for me, waiting to hurt me, to make me bad and drive you away—“

“Stop.”

The Master pulls the Doctor into his arms, tightly, stroking his hair, rubbing his back. But the Doctor _can’t_ stop, even though the Master can’t stand to hear any more.

“And I can’t lose you, can’t ever be bad, because if you’re happy, then everything’s okay.”

“Stop, Doctor.”

“If you’re happy, it’s not so bad. But I couldn’t remember what I did, and I started to wonder… whether… whether it was even possible to keep you happy anymore, and then it _wasn’t_ , no matter what I did I couldn’t get kisses from you. I had to die to get kisses back.”

“Doctor.”

“Master.”

The Master kisses him, deeply, thoroughly, letting his tongue have its way with the Doctor’s mouth, trying to shut him up. It doesn’t work.

“Master, I have to know, will you still tell Lucy? And will you… can I… can it be so that I can always check? Check before—mmnngerggghh—“

The Master’s kissing him again, on the verge of tears, can’t hear any more. This time, when he pulls away, he places his hand over the Doctor’s mouth. The Doctor looks scared.

“Don’t be scared,” the Master says, aware of how hollow that sounds, how meaningless, in the face of what the Doctor’s just told him.

Never, ever, in all the two hundred years it’s been since the Toclafane descended, has the Master broken his own rules. Not once. Oh, he’s hard, he’s cruel, even, he’s insatiable, he’s—well. The Doctor was less than willing, in the beginning, and that never stopped him. But the Master has only ever followed the rules he set down, the rules that applied to him just as much as to his slaves. Obedience was to be rewarded, dissent punished.

Until this.

The first violation. The Master broke the rules, by punishing the Doctor when he’d done nothing wrong—and that, in turn, broke the Doctor. Through his ignorance, letting his emotion cloud his judgment, the Master had broken the Doctor.

But why hadn’t the Doctor _said_ something when it happened? Why hadn’t he said he wasn’t willing, that Lucian had lied, had forced him?

_Because you’ve never cared before. Why would you now?_

“I’m sorry,” the Master whispers. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Doctor, I didn’t know Lucian forced you. I thought—when I came in, I saw you look up at me, and you smiled, and I thought that you were—but he was—and I should _never_ have hurt you, Doctor, ever, not then or after or… or before. I’m so sorry, so sorry. But I’m going to make it all better.”

 

The Master goes downstairs, leaving the Doctor alone in his bed, sedated. The Doctor spends the interim staring at the lights on the ceiling, watching them flash and twinkle.

When the Master returns, he’s red. Well, not all of him. Bits of him are still Masterish, but the rest of him’s been painted. Great splotches of it seep into the carpet at every step. Is that paint? No, it can’t be. Well. Whatever it is, the Master goes to the bathroom and showers it off.

Blood. Was it blood?

Whatever. The lights twinkle pleasantly. If he squints, the Doctor can see fairies.

The Master gets out of the shower, and the water shuts off. He hears the Master toweling off, and then the Doctor flushes as the Master emerges, naked, and settles into bed next to him. He averts his eyes shyly.

“No, now, none of that. You can look.”

The Doctor does, and oh, he _sees_. So slim, the dusting of hair over his Master’s chest, the smooth lines of his thighs and waist. He raises a hand automatically to lay fingers on that waist, but pauses. He’s not supposed to.

“You can do anything you like.”

Well, now. _That’s_ a broad range of permissions. The Doctor grins, then fans his fingers out over the Master’s abdomen, feeling the faint flicker of the Master’s pulses in his solar plexus, watching his hand rise and fall with the Master’s breathing.

This pursuit occupies him for quite some time, given how sedated he is, and it’s not until the drugs wear down a bit that he lets his hand wander any further. He moves up, over the Master’s chest and shoulders, his throat, and it isn’t even really sexual, just the Doctor coping with the realization that the Master has _skin_ , has all these soft, warm places that invite him to touch, and he’s _allowed_ to touch, the Master’s not mad. He’s even encouraging him with soft exhalations and quiet murmurs.

Soon, the Doctor’s stubble rasps quietly over the Master’s waist, and the Doctor likes the sound so much he does it again, and again. “That tickles.”

“Sorry, Master.”

“Come here for your kiss.”

And oh, the Master parts his legs and lets the Doctor crawl slowly up his body, bring their mouths together, and the Doctor feels the Master beneath him. It’s a lot like the Master being on top of him, except for a little gravity, and it’s that reversal that makes the Doctor’s head spin.

The Doctor deepens the kiss, tastes the Master’s tongue, then buries his face in the Master’s shoulder, kissing there, kissing everywhere, feeling Master tasting Master so much Master, _must_ touch it all. He drags his fingertips over the Master, presses his lips against the Master, over thighs and calves and chest and shoulders and arms and legs again, over, and over, and over, and over, and over.

He loses himself in it completely. So completely. It’s bliss. He never wants to stop, and he doesn’t, not until he’s sore from holding himself up, and even then it’s the Master who coaxes him down. When he’s curled on his side, one leg thrown over the Master’s hips, he leaves a hand on the Master’s chest, rubbing and, now and then, pinching gently.

“You’re so real,” the Doctor says softly.

“I am real.”

“I wasn’t convinced.”

The Master chuckles, pulls the Doctor in close. “Do you believe it now?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good.”

Some time passes in comfortable silence.

 

“Doctor, why haven’t you tried to… to hurt me? The way I hurt you?”

“You haven’t misbehaved, Master. I don’t hurt innocent people.”

“Oh.”

The Doctor drifts off into a little nap. The Master watches him sleep.

_I don’t hurt innocent people._

Maybe there’s a little left of the Doctor after all.

 

The Master tries to draw the Doctor out, to draw his poison out of the wounds. The tea and bananas continue. The Master doesn’t like the sedation, but on being questioned, the Doctor says it helps, so the Master keeps it at a low level for him.

And, for a day, the Doctor is given leave to, er, frolic, for lack of a better word, on the Master’s private moon-garden, Eden. The Master walks with him, talks with him, keeps an eye on him; the Doctor is free to run, and climb trees, and feel grass between his toes. He has sunglasses for the light, and gets a sunburn, but the Master hears him laughing, for the first time.

It’s wonderful.

“Allons-y!” the Doctor says, for about the _hundredth_ time, as he climbs yet another tree. His hands are raw from the roughness of the bark, but he doesn’t care. What’s pain to him? He straddles a branch, waves to the Master, looks at the setting sun.

 

When it’s dark, the Doctor gets scared, and comes running to the Master. “He’s coming,” the Doctor pants, “he’s coming, he’s in the trees, look—“

“Doctor, there’s nothing there.”

“Master, what are you playing at, what are—“

The Master kisses him gently. “Would I lie to you?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, yes, I would. But I’m not. There’s nothing there, Doctor. It’s just… just your imagination, playing tricks on you because you’re scared. But he’s dead. There’s nothing to be scared of anymore.”

“He’s—“

“Dead. Deader than dead. Washed-him-down-the-floor-drains dead. I’d show you the body, but there isn’t one left.”

The Doctor’s knees go out from under him, and the Master catches him. “He’s… dead? Really?”

“You don’t remember me coming into the bedroom, covered in blood?”

“That’s what you—what –Master, I don’t—you _killed_ him? For me?”

“Yes. Well, for us. He violated you, and he disrespected me.”

“You violated me,” the Doctor says, baldly.

“No.”

“No?”

“You know what I’ve told you. Repeat it to me, now.”

“It’s not—that…” He frowns. His mouth forms a little pout, and the corners turn down. Then his pupils dilate, his lids droop a little, almost imperceptibly. “Because I’m yours,” he says softly.

 

The Doctor’s alone, sedated, curled up in the Master’s bed. He hums to himself, softly, something that echoes faintly in the back of his mind sometimes, if he listens hard.

The Master is taking an awfully long time to come back. Maybe he should entertain himself. He could leave a nice, pretty mess of himself for the Master to come back to.

The Doctor isn’t really comfortable with touching himself, not yet. But he plays with the key to his chastity cage, puts it in and out of the lock, working his way up to it. Sometimes he even unlocks it, but he always locks it again.

He toys with himself in this fashion for a while, in and out, locking and unlocking, wondering what the Master’s up to, until he gets bored. He sits up, with some difficulty given his drugged state, and looks around, feeling the sheets and pillows, ghosts fingertips over the Master’s headboard. He shivers, imagining the Master tying his wrists to these slats, imagining them as his only view while the Master takes him from behind. Oh, he knows what he’ll try to dream of tonight.

Maybe he could even ask the Master to do it, he muses, since apparently he’s allowed to… to like, and want. A stupid grin spreads over his face as he wraps his fingers around the rounded knob at the top of the bedpost. _He’s allowed to want._

There’s a seam in the wood, nearly undetectable, just there, just under the round part. The Doctor examines it carefully. Something about it is bothering him.

He looks at the same spot on the other bedpost. No seam. Or, if there is one, it isn’t visible.

 _Probably just come loose_ , he thinks, and tries to tighten it so the seam disappears. It won’t budge at all. Curiouser and curiouser. He tries turning it in the other direction, and—

And a panel of the wall clicks, pops back, and slides open, revealing a hidden room behind it.

The Doctor freezes.

On the one hand, the Doctor is insanely curious; on the other, he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed in there, whatever it is. The Master had said the whole of the Valiant was open to him, if he wished it, but somehow, the Doctor doesn’t think he expected the Doctor to find this room.

But he’d said _the whole of the Valiant_.

The Doctor clambers out of bed, stands on the threshold, peeks in, and suddenly he can’t breathe, suddenly he needs the wall for support.

 _It’s her_.

The Doctor has found the TARDIS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, by sheer coincidence, is coming this weekend, right along with the series 8 premiere. How fun! Bring tissues.


	17. Safe Word

The Master pauses mid-sentence. The alarm on his watch is wailing, the one he never thought he’d hear. He supposes he should have expected it now that the Doctor’s allowed in his bed. It’s the proximity alarm, the one he’d set on the panic room. “Excuse me, Viceroy, we can continue this conversation later.”

The Master’s not particularly worried, actually. He expects a lot of crying. Like, a _lot_ of crying. The Doctor hasn’t seen his TARDIS in over a century, so he’ll probably be too busy fawning over her to get up to anything naughty on the control systems.

The Master ought to know by now that he can’t anticipate the Doctor’s actions.

 

When the Master enters, the Doctor is crying, yes, but he doesn’t look happy, he isn’t smiling, but he’s not sad. Tears streak down flushed cheeks under a furrowed brow, and his teeth are bared like he’s about to growl. He’s… _angry_.

“Hello, Doctor.”

“Master.”

Good. He’s still using the Master’s name. It’s become a kind of benediction, a kind of safe word. Not that the Master is ever, ever _safe_. The Master smiles, crosses the distance between them, and leans in to give the Doctor his kiss.

The Doctor shoves him away, hard. It takes all his wiry strength to do it, but the Master stumbles back against the control panel. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls. He’s breathing hard, and the Master can see sweat beading at his temples.

The Master is suddenly very, very nervous. He hasn’t seen the Doctor this way in decades, not since his spirit first started to break. The Master remembers breaking him, that slow loss of everything Doctorly, and feels a little sick.

“You’re crying, Doctor. I don’t like it when you cry.”

“Too bad.” The Doctor stumbles back against his TARDIS, jiggles the handle. He’s putting all his weight against her, like she’s the only thing holding him up, which may very well be the case. “What’ve you done with the key?”

“I hid it,” the Master says simply. “I’m afraid I can’t have you entering the Paradox Machine, whatever state you’re in.”

“She’s told me,” the Doctor hisses, and there’s a glint in his eyes. Not like madness. The Master is used to madness. This is something altogether more terrifying.

 _Awareness_.

The Doctor’s TARDIS has given him back his mind.

“Told you what?” the Master asks, falsely casual, leaning against the control panel with crossed arms.

“What you’ve been using her to do,” the Doctor replies. “What you’ve been doing to people. You’ve been… hurting them. Killing them, innocent people, _good_ people.”

“What have I told you?” the Master asks, gently.

“They aren’t _like_ me, they aren’t yours, they never have been! You’re hurting them, and they’ve done no wrong!” His chest heaves, and a fresh course of tears streams down his face.

“Doctor.” The Master tries affection again, crossing the distance between them with open arms, but as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, the Doctor shoves him away again.

“No. You’re… wrong. You’ve been… bad.” The words are like icicles in the Master’s heart, but that seems to be nothing compared to what they’re doing to the Doctor. He’s wheezing now, hyperventilating despite the sedative. “ _I have to stop you._ ”

“You can’t. You belong to me. Say it.”

“No.”

“ _Say it.”_

“Never!”

The Master draws the electrified baton. It sparks visibly as soon as he flicks it open.

The Doctor eyes it with a healthy dose of fear, but he mutters, “Never… never… I have to… never… You made me… You’ve made me break my promise. My oath.”

“No, Doctor, you did that. Of your own volition. Everything you did, you have chosen to do.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Not to you. Never to you. Come back to bed, we can—“

“ _NO_!” the Doctor screams. “I—will— _never—“_

“You will,” the Master says firmly. “You’re my lover, Doctor, you belong at my side. The two of us, together, standing tall, the last of the Time Lords, ruling the universe as benevolent gods.”

The Doctor stares at him for a long time, that glint becoming more and more pronounced in his eyes, the candle flame that was his consciousness burning brighter and brighter in the Master’s telepathic gaze. It flares suddenly, nearly blinding him, and the Master falls back with a wince.

 

The Doctor has one thought. It’s _her_ thought, really, but he recognizes the words as echoes of his own, and they spring to life within him, concentrating and then exploding into brightness like a star forming in the nebulous, gaseous kindling of the universe. They drive him forward, up, straighten his spine, set his legs walking, marching toward the Master, and then those words fall from his lips in Gallifreyan, just as they had so many centuries ago—

“ _Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up. Never give in._ ”

 

The Master lunges for him, swinging the baton over his head, and the Doctor dodges nimbly, drives his shoulder into the Master’s gut as he tackles him. The Doctor’s bony, and the impact of his shoulder hurts almost as much as this betrayal. They hit the hard floor heavily, and the Master, more used to combat than the weakened and atrophied Doctor, rolls them over so he’s on top, driving the baton down again and again. The Doctor whimpers in pain with every blow, but doesn’t stop fighting as he usually does, as he _ought to do_ , and suddenly he’s screaming and clawing at the Master’s eyes, and the Master falls back, desperately swiping the baton across the Doctor’s hands, _crack!_ He goes for the throat, now, tries choking the Doctor out, but the poor Doctor has been choked so _much_ by his Master that it barely fazes him, and with his trademark flexibility he swings a leg up in front of the Master and axe-kicks him in the face. The Master howls, seeing stars, rolls off him, blood spurting from his nose. His Doctor, his peaceful, gentle Doctor, has _hurt_ him, and he bites back a cry of anguish as he feels the Doctor’s hands scrabbling at his jacket, looking for the key—

“NO!” The Master’s turn to kick, rage swelling in his hearts, and the Doctor’s frail body goes sailing backwards, slams into the wall, and he lands in a heap on the floor. “Very bad, Doctor,” the Master hisses, tending to his nose with one hand. “Very, very bad. I’ll have to punish you for this.”

The Master’s caring has its limits, and the Doctor has broken them today. _He’s sick_ , something in the back of the Master’s mind protests. _Sick, because of you, broken because of you, it’s your fault, it’s your fault he’s like this—_

 _Then I will fix him. I will_ make _him better. I will_ force him _to be well again._

And he thinks about breaking the Doctor all over again, how difficult it will be with the Doctor in such a delicate state—how torn he must be, how agonized. Caught between his Master and his ship, between the Master’s corrections and the ship’s truths.

The Master thinks about the revolt, the exploding nuclear factories, the army amassing in Andromeda, the fourteen planets even now raising armies against him. He’s going to have to reconquer half the galaxy, in addition to the Doctor. And then there’s Jack Harkness, the thorn that will never leave his side.

Why, he might as well just _start over_.

He fishes in his jacket, finds the key. The TARDIS is screaming at him, and he doesn’t care. It’s probably not helping the nosebleed, but she’ll quiet down soon enough.

He thinks about fetching Lucy, but… no. No, a clean break is better. He throws the TARDIS doors open wide, bathed in the red light of the Paradox Machine, and closes them behind him with his foot.

Now then, what to unplug?

 

From inside the TARDIS, he doesn’t really notice anything. Outside, realities are flitting by, star systems are wheezing back into existence. Time, having been tightly wound and then released, is snapping back into place with its usual elasticity. One hundred and ninety-seven years are rewound.

In the Master’s mind, he’s adjusting, rolling back, erasing. He’s rearranging the tidy displays and storerooms of his memories, sweeping away the last two hundred years. Well, one hundred ninety-seven years. He’d had plans for his two hundredth anniversary; he tidies them away neatly, the speech, the party, and the evening that would follow with the Doctor.

The Doctor. He’s going to be different.

Suddenly, the Master can’t breathe, can’t think. _The Doctor will be different_. He’ll be… himself. For the first time in centuries, the Master will truly have to face the Doctor, the real Doctor, the proper, unbroken, indomitable, unbreakable, invincible _Doctor_. And this time, the Master won’t have the benefit of an unexpected invasion. The Doctor might even find the TARDIS and unmake the Paradox Machine before the Master can even _launch the invasion_.

This was a mistake.

This was a horrible mistake.

He paces restlessly, trying to think, trying to breathe, and wonders if this is how the Doctor has felt for all these years. It’s horrible. He doesn’t like it one bit, and he finds he doesn’t like it for the Doctor. That caring, tender core to him has resurfaced, tearing at him. _How could you do this to him? For so long? Your Doctor?_

 _He’s_ mine _._

_Do you always break your favorite toys? Shouldn’t you treasure him, cherish him?_

The Master can’t think of a response to that.

_Very well. I shall._

All right, not a mistake. This time around, he’ll do it right. He’ll treat the Doctor as well as he deserves, as well as he earns it. Of course, he’ll still have to understand that he belongs to the Master; that is sacrosanct. But this time, the Master will… express himself differently.

 

It takes two days. Feels like forever. The Master drinks tea, watches the readings on the TARDIS scanner, listens to her agonized screaming abate as her pain is undone, her Doctor’s pain is undone, the universe is set to rights.

The eye of the temporal storm is tiny. No one remembers. No one but the TARDIS and the Master, and they aren’t about to tell. Their little secret. The Master smirks at the thought of knowing something about the TARDIS that the Doctor doesn’t, and decides, yes, it is good.

He works on a speech. He eats muffins. He takes a bath. And then it’s done.

“Have you seen these things? This planet’s amazing. Television in their _stomach_. Now that is evolution.” Maybe he shouldn’t wipe Earth out completely, now he thinks of it. The bananas turned out to be useful. And tea, bananas and tea. He feels the Doctor will be much more cooperative in the face of bananas and tea.

“Is the Machine ready?” the Toclafane asks, a little coldly. They weren’t happy when the Master told them he had to delay the invasion.

“Tomorrow morning. It reaches critical at 8:02 precisely.”

“We have to escape! Because it’s coming, sir, the darkness! The never-ending darkness! The terrible, terrible cold! We have to run and run _and run!”_

The drums swell painfully, and the Master’s nose still aches. “Eight o’clock, tomorrow morning,” he says, a little more testily than he intended. “Tell your people. _The world is waiting_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't remember: the Master's dialogue, just at the end, there? That's from The Sound of Drums.
> 
> Aaaaaaaaand that's it! Thanks so much for all the views, kudos, and teary comments! It's been a wild ride. I adore you all. <3 <3 I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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